


Ghostly Encounters

by Mimizuku9



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Ghost Hunters, M/M, Mental Institutions, Mild Blood, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Paranormal, Romance, and a lil bit of RoChu in the background bc i couldn't help myself, but USUK is endgame dw, subtle hints of FrUK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23477074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mimizuku9/pseuds/Mimizuku9
Summary: Alfred’s crew had one mission: to capture paranormal evidence on camera. But it wasn’t until St. Agatha’s asylum that they paid a deadly price for it. Together with fellow investigator Arthur, Alfred returns to St. Agatha’s for one final investigation — to rectify past mistakes, and uncover the mystery of Matthew’s disappearance. Written for Hetabang 2020.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), China/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 69





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another story about ghosts! This was inspired by Ghost Adventures, Grave Encounters, Buzzfeed Unsolved, and countless other ghost hunting shows, movies, and parodies. It started off as a fun AU, but be on the lookout for major angst (I couldn't help myself).

**ST. AGATHA'S ASYLUM, RURAL ONTARIO.**

Alfred had always believed in ghosts. Arthur, however, was an unforgiving sceptic when it came to the paranormal. Even so, he was willing to go along with Alfred's fruitless investigations. Perhaps it was the part of him that felt compelled to step over cracks in the pavement, and turn back when a black cat crossed his path. Perhaps it was because he just couldn't resist the thrill of sneaking into a closed-off building, or holding a séance in complete darkness. Alfred couldn't say he knew exactly why. He sometimes thought it was because Arthur just enjoyed his company too much. But that was before the camera started rolling, before they had ever set foot in St. Agatha's Asylum.

Though admittedly, even then things had been falling apart.

But Alfred was too distracted to see it then. He was too busy cracking open an ice-cold soda in the bleak winter of rural Ontario, relishing in the view before him while everyone else set up. The mountainside asylum stood before him imposingly, silently, casting its afternoon shadow on its lawn of long-overgrown weeds. Its darkened windows gazed like empty sockets, and with a bit of imagination, were matched with a howling mouth of an entrance, a big gaping archway pulling in unsuspecting visitors. The main building was extended on both sides, the east and west wing curling around like open arms. Arthur told him, once, that the building was rooted into the ground like a tree; there were secret rooms and hallways extending deep into the earth, like a reflection of the maze-like place above. James, the local who was begrudgingly willing to tour them around, never mentioned anything like that. Even denied it when asked.

The van door slid open behind him with a jarring creak, followed by a familiar huffed out groan. Alfred turned to find Yao hopping out of the van, running his hand over his face looking Done With Life as per usual.

"Alfred…" Yao crossed his arms. "How much did you pay for these cameras?"

"Um. Enough?"

Yao laughed sharply. Behind him Ivan was crawling out of the van, squinting in the light. "No. These are broken. You should be getting a refund."

"What are you talking about?"

"Two of them keep going out. A third one only _sometimes_ gives a clear picture, but the second you leave it all it gives is static, though I really don't know how —"

Alfred couldn't help his growing grin. "I mean, I might know a reason —"

"I don't want to hear it!" Yao waved his hand frantically, as if shooing away the thought. "Keep your paranormal theories to yourself. I just need these cameras working. Ivan is going back to check in on them now. I'm just telling you now that we might not be able to cover every room and hallway."

"What happened to our backups?"

"We _are_ using the backups. This place is too big. Ivan keeps getting lost and he's already been in there like four times."

Ivan ducked back into the van to grab what looked like a walkie-talkie, and began to jog over to the building.

"But we have the spots we marked up at least, right?" Alfred asked, thinking of the stairwell where a shadow man could always be seen seated, as if he was waiting for someone — or the bathroom mirrors with pained faces, or the chair that would rock even with all the doors and windows shut tight. Alfred was sure one of these spots was going to give him something amazing on camera. Yao was about to reply, and possibly disappoint him, when a soft voice interrupted.

"Um… guys?"

Alfred turned around, finding Matt looking uncomfortable a few feet away with the tripod in front of him.

"I really need some B-roll of the place. Y'know, before the sun sets?"

Ivan was still doing his slow jog across the weeds. Alfred laughed. Matt was smiling a little. Alfred forgot that he didn't have the patience of a saint, even if he sounded like one. Yet Matt was the only one of all the crew who took Alfred seriously. Right from the beginning, when they had met at university and the first thing out of Alfred's mouth was his latest theory on what's _really_ being kept in Area 51 (and it wasn't aliens).

"Don't worry, Mattie, I got this," he said, before cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling. "Ivan, you're messing up the shot! Ivan!"

He was sure Ivan could hear. But he didn't seem to pay any attention. He groaned.

"Sorry Matt."

"I'll deal."

"Where is Artie, anyway?"

Matt nodded towards the denser part of the woods. "He went to take a leak, I think…"

"For half an hour?" Alfred squinted at the forested distance, looking for the tell-tale sign of a red cap amongst the muted browns of dead leaves and fallen branches, his vision was cut by the stark white bark of the birch trees. He wandered in that direction. "Artie!" he yelled. When he heard no response, he tried again, louder. "ARTIE!"

"Hey, it's okay, he'll come back soon."

Alfred glanced back at Matt, caught off guard a little by the way he was being comforted. Alfred wasn't _that_ distressed about Arthur's absence. Matt must have read him wrong. Sweet, well-meaning Matt.

He laughed, a little forcefully. "That's cute of you, Matt, but really, you couldn't pay me to care where that history nerd goes! Anyway, I need a leak, too. I'll be back in five."

Alfred stepped into the squelching leaves, heading in the vague direction Arthur had rushed off to about half an hour ago. These forests, though they began and ended at some point, felt like an infinite maze. Every tree looked the same, the slopes and fallen logs repeating themselves, the thick shade of overlapping leaves and branches barely allowing through any dying sunset light from the sky, let alone a view of the mountains. There was no possible way they would have found their way here by themselves. Not without James, at least. Alfred stayed within view of the hotel, checking back to see its horrified face now and then, until bumping into a tree – a tree which apparently swore in French.

Alfred bounced back at the sight of James. "Dude, watch it!"

James only stood there for a moment, who for whatever reason, was holding a dirty shovel. His hair was slightly stuck to his face with sweat, his breaths puffing out like little clouds into the air. Alfred felt stared at, though he couldn't tell for sure through the tint of James' sunglasses.

"Mind where you're going," James said. He was quiet like Matt — looked a lot like him, too, funnily enough — but his voice had a huskier gravity to it that demanded attention.

"Where, uh… Where've you been with that shovel, James?"

James removed his sunglasses, looking blankly at Alfred with bloodshot eyes. "Keeping the grounds fed. For your safety."

Strained laughter came out of Alfred's mouth. He didn't know what he meant by that. Not sure he even wanted to ask. But James was a funny guy… Canadian humour! Probably. "You're a funny guy. Have I told you that already?"

James only grunted in response, moving past Alfred with his shovel in hand. Alfred swallowed, wandering a little further ahead. He'd been getting emails from James for a long while — ever since he'd uploaded the first episode of _Ghostly Encounters_. James was a paranormal enthusiastic like him, and eventually offered to host them for an unheard of haunted site in rural Canada. Or at least, he thought that had been James — he denied ever sending that invitation. Alfred wasn't sure why he would lie about that. It was in that moment, here in the dead of the woods, that something in him started to speak, a gut feeling he'd been ignoring harder and harder over the course of the trip here, a cold nervousness urging him to leave this place —

He spotted the bright red of Arthur's cap up ahead. He picked his pace up to a run, colliding into Arthur.

"ART!"

"Fucking hell, you startled me," Arthur said as he stumbled back. "And please don't ever call me that. What are you doing here?"

"We're setting up. What's taking you so long?"

"I was just on my way back," Arthur said as he pulled his cap over his winter-tinged ears, his teeth chattering. "No need to police my bloody bathroom breaks."

"Heck of a long one though, don't you think?"

Arthur walked past him with only an eye-roll for an answer. Alfred chuckled, whirling around to yell after him.

"Hey, we're bros, you can tell me if you were jacking it!"

Arthur only gave an exasperated sigh, and not a fun one. A real, grating, _you truly are a nuisance_ sigh. Alfred didn't want to put too much stock into it though. Arthur had always been hard to read. Especially the past few days. The past few months really, since Alfred had done that one stupid drunken thing. Several stupid drunken things, actually. And he wasn't even really drunk for most of them. He'd hoped they would both forget, but three months later and things _still_ feel… weird.

Back at the van, Matt had packed up his camera and tripod. Alfred guessed he finally got the shot he needed. Or had given up and decided he was going to film in the morning. Yao and Ivan were sitting on the edge of the back of the van, whispering almost conspiratorially. Alfred had a good feeling they might ask him again why their names weren't mentioned in the show's opening, despite being just as much equipment techs as Matt. Alfred didn't want to have to say it was only because the opening would sound too clunky. He avoided them and walked up to James, who was sucking on an unlit cigarette.

"Are you good to lock up?"

"Yep," James said, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a set a keys. He threw them at Alfred.

Alfred barely caught them, the question already out of his mouth: "What are these for?"

"Emergency keys."

"For what?"

"In case you need to leave before I get here. For an emergency."

"Yeah, we're not going to need these."

Arthur interrupted. "Alfred, it can't hurt to have them just in case."

Alfred scoffed. "You realise this defeats the whole purpose of the lockdown, right? If we were to have a spare set, who's to say we haven't let anyone in to tamper with the cameras or — or pose as shadows or voices or whatever. We're locked in precisely so we can say with confidence that _no one_ else is here with us. Right?" Alfred laughed, maybe because everyone else looked so stupidly worried. "Guys, come on. We have to think of our credibility here."

"You don't think other ghost hunting crews keep an emergency set of keys? Or have someone waiting outside to let them out?" Arthur said, raising a brow. Ugh, that patronising brow.

"We are not like other ghost hunting crews. We're not entertainment. We're not even reality TV. We're making legit documentaries here. Legit investigations."

No one said anything. It was so awfully quiet out here by the woods, with only the rustling of the leaves. Why wasn't anyone saying anything?

"Ugh, fine, it's whatever," Alfred said, rolling his eyes. He'd dump the keys somewhere later. He turned to Yao and Ivan. "Are the cameras working now?"

"Just about," Yao said.

Arthur stepped in and held his hand out. "Alright, Alfred. Hand me the keys."

"What for?"

"It's simply best if you hand them to me instead," Arthur said. Alfred glared at him.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The face Arthur had made at him then was all too familiar. That condescending, prickly glance. He really didn't trust Alfred, did he?

"Alright. If that's how you want it," Alfred said. He turned towards the woods and hurled the keys away, with a throw that sounded no landing. A pool of water, a pile of leaves, caught on a tree branch — it could be anywhere. _Good._

"Alright! Guys, are we ready to roll?"

He would never forget the look James had given him then. It wasn't anger, or annoyance — that was Arthur's expression, for sure. But James, he had looked at him with something like horror, paled and speechless. At the time Alfred couldn't puzzle it out, let alone bother thinking about it. He was more concerned with the silent treatment Arthur was giving him, and whether the cameras would still be working when they finally caught the proof he'd been searching for all his life. They didn't understand it, not then, and especially not now. Because for Alfred, even if something awful did happen, he wouldn't care if they couldn't escape until dawn. If he could get real evidence of the horrors that haunted him at night, if he could prove to the world that he wasn't crazy, he wouldn't care _what_ he lost along the way.

But that was then, and Alfred hadn't lost anything yet.

With reluctance, Yao and Ivan returned to the van, and the rest of the gang headed towards the entrance of the main building. Alfred was the last to enter — he kept an eye on James at the doorway, making sure he didn't hand out a second spare set of keys. The doors shut behind them, their rusty hinges groaning. They waited until they could hear the clunk of the padlock outside as James locked them in. The inside of the building was even colder, dark, and echoed their very breaths like a tomb. The camera started rolling. It would be this until dawn.

Alfred couldn't have possibly known it would be their final episode.


	2. Reunion

**LONDON. THREE YEARS (AND 3 MONTHS) LATER.**

The years seemed to have done favours for Alfred. Although he looked dishevelled — a faint touch of delirious — his shoulders had broadened out, and the soft boyishness Arthur remembered had given in to harder, admittedly handsome, angles. His heart was still pounding though, and his stomach had already begun to feel queasy, as if nothing had really changed.

“Alfred…” Arthur croaked out, and he had to clear his throat before standing up to shut the meeting room door. Even so, he was sure the receptionist had already shared her speculations with his co-workers about this surprise visitor of his. “It’s been a while.”

Alfred grinned, dropping himself down onto a chair. “Yeah, man! It’s been like, what? Two years?”

“Three.” _And a quarter_ , he thought with a grimace.

“Three!”

Arthur nodded, and he lingered at the door waiting for Alfred to say something more. About where he had been all these years, about how curious he was about Arthur’s own life after university. But he knew Alfred wasn’t here on a trip just to see him – there was no way he’d suffer an eight-hour flight just for that – and he expected to be asked for some favour. He could tell he was right before Alfred even opened his mouth again.

“So Artie, I know I’m kind of ambushing you with this, but remember those ghost hunting videos we used to make?”

“Vaguely,” Arthur said as he took his seat opposite of him. A bold lie. He remembered it all too well.

“I had this awesome idea the other day – what if we brought the gang back together, and did one last episode? For old times sake.”

Arthur furrowed his brows, a knee-jerk feeling of anger at the sound of that – _for old times sake_. “What?”

“You know, get everyone back together so we can do another –”

“I know what you meant. I’m just –” Arthur straightened up and back in his chair. “Why? What for?”

“What for?” Alfred chuckled, and it was that familiar incredulous one, often followed by: “Arthur, please.”

“What?”

“Don’t be weird about this.”

Arthur sat there and stewed, biting back the poisonous remarks that were ready to pounce out of his mouth before he could do anything about them. He straightened his shirt and got up to pretend he had better things to be doing, to indicate to Alfred that this conversation was over. “Whatever it is you’ve cooked up this time, Alfred, I’m not taking part.”

“Wha— I’m not ‘cooking up’ anything! Jesus, give me more credit than that.”

“Trust me, I already have.”

Arthur wished he’d left that remark in his mouth. The look on Alfred’s face had changed, and although it was nothing more than a bemused look, it somehow managed to turn his insides into an unsolvable knot.

“Everyone else have said yes.”

“And why would any of them ever do that.”

Alfred shrugged, leaving it up to Arthur to figure out if it was worth doubting him. He couldn’t picture any of the others being gullible enough to fall for Alfred’s shenanigans, yet he wouldn’t put it past Alfred to get creative, either.

“I don’t suppose you have a location in mind?”

Alfred’s stupid grin faltered. He glanced down at his watch. “Hey, um. Tell you what.” He looked back up at Arthur and there was now something quieter, something more pained in his expression. “What do you say we get out of here? Let me buy you lunch.”

.

Arthur didn’t really know any good places to eat nearby. His usual lunch place used to be a nearby pastry shop, which was delightfully quiet, but he stopped going there eventually because the shop owners came to know his name and wanted to strike conversation every time he went — and that was just too much for Arthur to handle. Homemade lunch alone at his desk was the new normal now.

So he and Alfred walked for a good twenty minutes through London streets — long enough to be sure that Arthur wouldn’t bump into coworkers on their lunch hour. He didn’t tell Alfred this, naturally, and pretended to have known _exactly_ where he was going when he spotted a reputable burger place. They were guided to their table by a window at Alfred’s inexplicably childish insistence (it wasn’t even sunny out). Besides, it put Arthur close enough to the door for a quick escape if necessary. He uneasily eyed the camera bag that Alfred set on the table, but said nothing. The camera wasn’t out yet, at least.

The waiter came up to them and took their orders, leaving them in awkward silence when he left. Alfred had his arms crossed over on the table, and Arthur could feel the vibration of his bouncing knees. He felt a strange nervous knot in his stomach, himself.

“So, did you…” Arthur started, but his voice was raspy and he had to clear his throat. “I’m assuming you’ve moved back to the U.S.”

“Oh yeah.” Alfred chuckled. “No way I’d ever stay here. No offence.”

Arthur stiffened. “None taken.”

Yet another awful silence fell between them; Arthur hated them. It was one of two reasons he avoided unnecessary social contact these days. The other being that he was much happier buried in books, completely unaware of his own existence. But this was Alfred, and as much as he hated to admit it to himself, he often wondered what had happened to him since they stopped speaking.

“So…” Arthur started, again. “What is it you do? For a living, I mean.”

Alfred glanced up, completely devoid of interest. “Oh. Um… You know. Temp work here and there.”

“Temp work?”

Alfred nodded, glancing out the window. “Yeah, uh — so what is you do anyway?”

“Well,” Arthur sighed. “I finally landed myself a full-time job about a year ago. Doing…. administrative work, basically. But it pays decently, I suppose, for what I… um…”

There was a faraway look in Alfred’s eyes. In his memory, they were a striking cornflower blue, but in the cold daylight of London’s murky skies, they seemed little more than a pale and watery grey. And so distant. It ticked Arthur in that small, familiar way.

“I’m still working on that manuscript,” he continued, “Thinking about turning it into a novel instead of a screenplay, but I’m not sure yet…”

Alfred gave an absent-minded hum. His eyes darted away, and his brows furrowed pensively. The knee-bouncing intensified. And oh, how that familiar spark of annoyance grew into an old flame of fury…

“And I recently bought myself a pet komodo dragon,” Arthur said, raising his voice a little. Alfred didn’t even seem notice or care. “I feed it live chickens and take it out for walks — ”

“I’ve been in contact with James,” Alfred blurted out. He froze, as they both felt the gaze of the entire restaurant on them. Alfred leaned closer, taking in an intimate sigh before lowering his voice. “We think Mattie is still alive.”

Arthur could never have been ready to hear that. It punched him straight in the gut, draining the blood from his face.

“What are you bloody talking about.”

“We… James may have…” Alfred swallowed, his gaze darting everywhere, unable to stay on Arthur’s. “He may have sent me video proof that Mattie is still there, at St. Agatha’s.”

The waiter came upon them with a bright smile, placing a diet Coke for Alfred and a pint of cider for Arthur along with their burgers. God, he just knew he would need the cider. After thanking the waiter and waiting for him to leave, he took a big gulp of his cider, and then another. He set it down hard on the table. Alfred’s words echoed in his head, and his grip on the cider was trembling.

“This better be a joke in extremely poor taste, Alfred,” he said, still trying to catch that grey-blue gaze which was so inexplicably hesitant to look him straight in the eye. “There better be an explanation and an apology. And then I’m leaving, and that’s the good outcome here.”

Alfred’s mouth twitched. “A-Alright, listen.” He folded his arms over the table, his shoulders hunched. “Even after we left that place, James and I kept looking. Well, _he_ was looking, being the groundskeeper and all. I was just the guy hearing all about it. Activity… really spiked after whatever it was we did there.” Alfred’s eyes started shine, wide in their gaze the way they became when something caught his fascination. “Some of those EVPs are like nothing I’ve ever heard, and the footage with the thermal cam is just —”

“Alright, now —”

“Sorry,” Alfred scratched his neck. “Um. Anyway. Point is, about a month ago, James stopped responding to me. And… this is the last thing he sent me.”

He pulled out his phone and set it across the table to Arthur.

“Press play,” Alfred said. “And watch carefully.”

Arthur hesitantly picked the phone up, feeling his breath quicken as he pressed play. There was an dreadful feeling in his throat, like a cry of horror ready to escape. He watched the shaky footage of a long hallway, waiting in the grainy silence for that unknown awful thing.

A hoarse, barely there voice: “ _Leave now.”_

“… Matthew, was that you?” an accented voice called out. James. The camera shook as he ran towards the end of the hallway, his flashlight flickering and growing dim. He turned the corner, towards a familiar spiral flight of concrete stairs, and there it was — a brief glimpse of a man disappearing down into the depths of the stairs, a shock of a red hoodie and a cloud of blond hair. The unknown figure walked straight through the wall, disappearing, before the flashlight flickered out.

The video cut, and all Arthur could do was stare at the table. He glanced up at Alfred quickly, swallowing down that lump in his throat.

“What was that?” he laughed, dryly. “Your latest forgery?”

“Arthur, you know I never did those kinds of things.”

“You know, I’m still waiting for that damn apology,” Arthur snapped, his voice loud but brittle. His fingers were shaking in his lap. If it wasn’t a forgery, it was delusion. Yes. Alfred had primed him for it, to watch that video and expect to see Matthew’s shadow. It could be anyone. It could be nothing. Alfred might still be sick with the guilt, but Arthur had already done his grieving for Matthew. He’d long ago accepted the brutal fact that he probably fell through some deteriorated floorboards, or had gotten trapped somewhere in that godforsaken asylum, or perhaps had wandered out into the woods and frozen to death. Perhaps he hit his head, forgot who he was, and was living some bizarre other life in Canada. Either way, the Matthew they knew was long gone.

And here Alfred was, kicking it all up, throwing the ashes in Arthur’s face. And for what? He watched Alfred fidget there in his seat, sighing, rolling his eyes, adjusting the camera bag on the table.

“Look,” Alfred started.

“Why did you come to me?” Arthur interrupted. The question stopped Alfred dead in his tracks.

“Why?” Alfred echoed back. “Because we need to go back. Because I can’t do this by myself. I never could.”

Arthur scoffed. “Don’t insult my intelligence.” He prodded the camera bag, unable to help an inner smile when Alfred reached protectively for it. “I know what this is for. That suspicious little gap. The reason you picked the table by the window.”

“It’s really good lighting…” Alfred said as he adjusted the bag back. There was a troubling smile on his lips. “Your eyes look unreal, man, if I somehow get to catch that green on camera —”

“Did you really think I was going to come back? For flimsy evidence like that?”

That charmer smile wiped clean off. “What’s so flimsy about it? I think it’s pretty damn clear evidence —”

“Your _evidence_ is a barely visible shadow of a man from some grainy recording of a crazed, obsessed stranger who still thinks Matthew is somehow wandering around after all these years. And you are asking me, and whoever else you’ve dragged into this, to risk our lives again on… on some _whim_ , on some need for a sensationalist comeback. Did you ever consider what it would do to Matthew’s family? Hm? If you don’t recall, they’ve already buried his casket. I was there when they shovelled dirt on top of it. And you just want to rip him out, don’t you?”

“I was there, too,” Alfred gritted through his teeth. “And I’m not ripping him out. I’m saving him. _We’re_ saving him. We’re getting him out of there.”

“There is no one to save! For heaven’s sake, Alfred, there is nothing there, and I’m not dignifying this investigation by coming along.”

“And what about James? He’s disappeared for over a month now. You’re telling me he’s not worth it either?”

“That’s your problem. Or rather, it’s a matter for the authorities to deal with. Do the world a favour and curb your meddling instincts.”

Alfred sighed heavily — unnecessarily dramatically — and sunk back into his seat. “You know what. Fine. I thought you’d want to help, but… Fine.”

“Good. I’m glad we came to an understanding.”

“Oh, no we didn’t,” Alfred laughed dryly, glancing down at his burger. “But uh… let’s just enjoy the meal and call it a day.”

To Arthur’s relief, Alfred turned the camera off and put it back into its bag, fully closed this time. Their meal continued, but conversation was sparse. Every time Arthur asked him what he’d really been up to all these years — if he found a job, travelled, met anyone — Alfred only diverted the conversation in another direction. Arthur didn’t have much to say about himself. Nothing he wanted to share, at least. They passed the time talking about others. Yao had apparently attempted working in China for a year after graduation, hated it, and returned back to England for a Master’s degree. Francis had taken up a job in banking here in London (Arthur had no idea). And Ivan… well, no one was sure. But he still posted strange pictures of bleak nature and survivalist kits on his Instagram.

Arthur glanced at his phone to check the time and cursed under his breath. He’d been away from work for over an hour now. “Fuck me, I have to go.”

Alfred choked on his drink, laughing. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Oh shut up, it’s figurative.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Arthur hummed doubtfully. There was colour on Alfred’s cheeks, and he didn’t look as tired. It was as if they had never left university, as if the past three years had passed by in no more than a day.

Alfred slurped up the last of his drink, leaned back, and sighed wistfully. “Look… if you _wanna_ join —”

“I very explicitly told you I don’t —”

“If you change your mind and wanna join,” Alfred said, typing out on his phone as he spoke. Arthur’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “We’re heading over to the airport tonight. Be there by six. We’ll be gone after that.”

Arthur pulled out his phone to glance at the address that was texted to him. He looked back up to Alfred. “It was nice seeing you, Alfred.”

Alfred’s gaze, momentarily bright, faltered with hesitation. “Um. Yeah. Same.”

“But I’m not going back. And neither should you.”

Alfred nodded. “Yeah, I figured you would say that.”

Arthur stood up, quickly leaving his half of the lunch bill on the table before Alfred could protest. _Stay safe_ , he wanted to say, but all he could do was awkwardly glance at Alfred, and leave the diner.

.

The walk back to his office was unsettlingly quiet, even in the all-constant buzz of London. His conversation with Alfred echoed over and over again in his head, each time wondering if his choice of words were right. Was he too harsh? Maybe even not blunt enough? And then he thought about how he’d left without even saying anything, and felt the need to go home straightaway, duck under the covers of his bed, and disappear from the world.

But there was work to be done. He stepped into the office and was suffocated with its stuffy warmth; it usually tolerable, but was now only a reminder that he was stepping further and further away from Alfred. It’d been so long since he’d last seen him, and the lunch with him had gone by so fast — but that didn’t matter. He sat at his desk, pretending not to notice the curious glances in his direction, and picked up where he’d left off. He glared at his screen. He’d been writing an email. Two hours ago, Alfred had scared him from behind and caused him to not only leave a trail of gibberish on his screen, but to yelp and make a fool of himself in front of his co-workers.

It was strange how a smile had managed to find its way on his lips. Strange how he felt a giddiness in his chest, a burst of energy he hadn’t expected. He still found himself wanting to laugh at things Alfred had said. He swallowed it all down and got back to work.

The hours passed by more excruciatingly slowly than ever. He couldn’t help but keep glancing at the time, counting down the hours until Alfred would be gone. At around 4 PM, the loss suddenly hit him. When would he see him again, if ever at all?

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered to himself. He hated thinking this way. He hated that ache in his chest, that need. Three years had gone by without Alfred, and just like the nightmares that need was stubborn as ever, rooted firmly within him. He tried to think of all the reasons that he left, but they all seemed so small now, so distant and irrelevant.

He sighed and rested his head in his hands. Alfred was going back there, with him or without him. He wasn’t going to find Matthew, Arthur was sure of that, but he certainly was going to try in the most foolish and reckless way possible. Whether Arthur liked it or not, he _had_ to be there, right? He had to be there to stop him this time from making yet another stupid decision.

He got up from his seat. He didn’t even bother shutting off the computer. He grabbed his coat, his laptop bag, and left without a second glance. His heart started pounding. With less than two hours to pack and get to that address Alfred gave him, there wasn’t any time for giving excuses to his manager about feeling ill. He left that office and walked out into the brisk February breeze, barely feeling the cold.

.

The address Alfred had given him led him to a hotel room not too far from Arthur’s home. He tried to assume it was mere coincidence and not consideration on Alfred’s part. He found himself standing still at the door, hesitating to knock. He could hear voices and liveliness on the other side — Yao talking loudly and Alfred responding defensively, Ivan laughing in that strange way of his, and even Francis sweetly attempting to play as mediator. It sent a pang of nostalgia through Arthur, sending him back to his university days when he shared a flat with them, always with company even during his sleepless nights.

Just as he raised his hand to knock, a sudden fear overtook him. He’d be going back to that awful place, back to where the nightmares had begun, where they had all nearly lost their lives — where Matthew had lost his. And to face Alfred again; to stupidly hope that everything could be different now.

He braced himself and knocked. The room went completely quiet. Among cautious whispers, he heard someone approach the door. It opened to reveal Alfred peering out cautiously, his gaze brightening at the sight of Arthur. And then there was that troublesome, cheeky smile. Arthur felt its warmth with a sense of impending doom, as if he was making the same mistake twice. And yet he knew that nothing could have stopped him from doing it again.

“You’re just in time,” Alfred said. “Come on in.”


	3. The Witch's Bridge

The taxi to Heathrow Airport buzzed with a kind of energy Alfred hadn’t felt in a long time. The windows were slightly cracked open to let in the icy night air, at least until Yao began to complain about being cold, and the taxi driver had inexplicably decided to put on some 90s eurotrash music. Arthur had been telling a story for some time during the drive. Alfred didn’t catch the beginning of it, and didn’t seem to make sense of why the fact that the bartender in his story turned out to be from Milton Keynes was so hilarious. But he listened nonetheless — or rather, watched — as Arthur told his story in that particular way of his: measured, with sardonic hints of humour, and now and then the sly tug of his lips. There was a flushed look on his face, and he glanced around at everyone with such excitement. Where was that look when they were having lunch together?

“How did you manage that?” Francis asked Arthur, chuckling suggestively.

“Oh, you know me,” Arthur replied, and Alfred couldn’t help but feel some tiny stab with the direct look he gave Francis. “I’m no lightweight.”

“You don’t even know what lightweight means until you’ve done shots with Yao,” Ivan said, lightly nudging Yao’s shoe with his and earning an undignified glare.

“Everyone’s a lightweight next to you,” Yao snapped, though he was smiling.

“Yeah, man, you practically inhale the stuff,” Alfred said. “You’re like a high-functioning alcoholic or something.”

The taxi went uncomfortably quiet, save for the pulsating garbage music the taxi driver somehow thought was good.

“What?” Alfred asked. Everyone suddenly seemed interested in the traffic outside, even Arthur who presumably had no clue either on what the silence was all about. Whatever. Alfred would do the same then. He felt the barely-there brush of Arthur’s coat on the sleeve of his hoodie; there was some comfort in knowing Arthur didn’t mind sitting so close to him, at the very least. He hoped Arthur might be the first to break the silence. Instead, Francis started droning on about some ‘amazing’ film he saw at an indie screening the other weekend, and somehow managed to fool Arthur into being interested. Suddenly, the excitement of having everyone back together fizzled. It wasn’t the same without Matt — the only one who really got his humour, who really got Alfred in general. And then Alfred managed to mess things up and lose Arthur, too.

The rest of the drive to the airport took about another hour — Arthur and Francis made a point of how much faster it would have been with the Tube, but really, Alfred would have liked to see them lug around all those suitcases and camera bags in a cramped up subway. Whatever smug expression Arthur had was quickly wiped away with something like a dazed look on his face as they got through check-in and security. It was kind of funny. Alfred snapped a couple of picture of him like that — well, of the entire gang, which happened to include a dazed and lost-looking Arthur. It’d be weird otherwise.

Shortly after boarding the plane, he called dibs on the window seat (which was already his anyway but he had to make sure). Yao was quick to follow after and call dibs on the second window seat they had booked, after which Francis grabbed his aisle seat. Ivan took his seat next to Yao in the row behind, and asked one of the hosts for a small bottle of gin.

“Ivan, it’s way too overpriced,” Yao said.

“Isn’t everything on a plane overpriced?” Ivan replied irritably, and where Yao would normally stubbornly reply there was an unusual silence. Alfred turned his head to check, only to be interrupted by Arthur squeezing past Francis to his middle seat.

“Oh, hello,” Arthur said in that murmured, awkward way he did when he didn’t know how to start a conversation.

“Hello there,” Alfred replied in a mock-British accent. He could never get it as delicate as Arthur’s though.

Arthur attempted to hold back a smile. “Please don’t.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh dear.”

This time Arthur could not hold back his laugh. It felt good hearing it again. Once the plane eventually took off, and the cabin lights dimmed, Alfred unclipped his seat belt and turned to face the others.

“Alright guys,” Alfred whispered. “This is the first of three flights, and a ten hour one at that, so y’all better get some shut-eye.” He turned to peer at Yao and Ivan in the row behind. “I’m serious, we’ll be getting in Toronto at like 6 am and we won’t be getting much time to rest after that.”

Yao frowned. “Okay… Why are you looking at me specifically?”

“You know exactly why I’m looking at you.”

Yao snapped an eye mask over his face. “Maybe you should focus on keeping your own mouth shut. I’m prepared for sleep.”

“Oh, it’s a challenge, alright.” He slumped back into his seat, reaching into his rucksack in his lap. “You, too, Artie. You should sleep.”

“Oh, I’m not really tired —”

Alfred yanked out a neck pillow from his rucksack. “Here. I brought an extra one for you,” he lied, because he barely remembered to pack one for himself. He wasn’t going to sit there and watch Arthur uncomfortably lull his head around.

“Oh.” Arthur looked a little surprised, gingerly taking the pillow. “That’s… very considerate of you.”

“Put it on!”

“Alright, one second,” Arthur said irritably. He put it around his neck, testing it and glancing back at Alfred. “It’s… comfortable…”

“Good! You should sleep.”

“You’re being awfully pushy. Aren’t you going to put yours on?”

“Sleep!”

Arthur begrudgingly listened, closing his eyes and his breathing eventually slowing. Alfred tried to do the same, but he wasn’t really feeling it. There wasn’t anything to look at through his window, either, save for some distant blinking lights. He wasn’t sure why he was so excited to get the window seat if he knew it’d be an overnight flight. The plane around him was quiet, save for the humming of the plane engine. He could hear Yao snorting with quiet laughter behind him, and he and Ivan had been murmuring fervently about _something_. One of them dropped the tiny gin bottle, now empty, and it rolled across the walkway until Francis caught it for them. Alfred lolled his head towards Arthur, watching him in his drowsy state. He felt the question on the tip of his tongue, and already knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from talking despite insisting that the group gets some sleep.

“Hey…” He nudged Arthur, whispering. “Remember that camping trip?”

“Hm?”

“The witch house episode?”

Arthur sighed deeply, opening his eyes with a squint. “What about it?”

“Y’know, it was probably one of the spookier episodes we ever filmed,” he said. “I told you it was our most watched video to date, right?”

“Hm,” Arthur smiled. “And yet the spookiest thing that happened was that a cat jumped out at us.”

“Well, I mean… There was also the —” Alfred stopped. Arthur had closed his eyes again, and was already snoring lightly.

Francis peered over from his seat, giving them a nosy look.

Alfred shook his head at him. “ _What?”_ he mouthed.

“ _Is he asleep?”_ Francis whispered.

“ _What’s it to you?”_

Francis blinked, looking perplexed. “ _I’m… I’m asking —_ ”

Alfred hushed him, inadvertently startling Arthur, who opened his eyes drowsily.

“Not anymore, he ain’t,” Alfred said.

Arthur frowned groggily. “Could you both please shut up…”

“Yeah, Fran, keep it down.”

Arthur sighed irritably before shutting his eyes again. The cabin trembled a little, but as Alfred attempted to do the same as the others and rest, he could help but feel the slight prick of irritation with how Francis was fussing over Arthur. He glanced over, inexplicably preoccupied with the distance between those two, and felt relief in seeing that their shared armrest was empty, and stood there solidly dividing them.

.

**RURAL LANCASHIRE, ENGLAND. THREE YEARS (AND 10 MONTHS) AGO.**

The air in the witch’s house had been heavy and difficult to breathe — Alfred could still vividly recall the way the air had felt thick as water as the three of them stood there hunched beneath a low ceiling in the dark, saying nothing among the static radio noise of the ghost box. A humid breeze, reeking of stagnant river water, funnelled through the broken windows and stirred the dried leaves by their feet. Matt was standing by one of the few unbroken windows, recording with night vision on. Their individual flashlights barely illuminated the cabin, and Alfred could only just feel Arthur’s presence next to him — the innocuous touch of their arms against each other through Alfred’s hoodie.

“Elizabeth? Are you here?” Alfred asked, pausing for a moment. It’d been a few minutes asking these questions already, but there had been nothing yet. “If you are here, speak to us, Eliza —”

There was a garbled noise from the radio.

Alfred nudged Arthur. “Did you hear that? It sounded like...”

“A woman’s voice, yeah.”

“Elizabeth, is that you?” Alfred asked.

The cabin went quiet once again, the ghost box still running through grainy channels.

“We know what happened to you,” he continued. “We know what this town did to you. Is there anything you want to tell them?”

Nothing. Arthur took hold of Alfred’s arm and squeezed it.

“Look,” Arthur whispered, and his breath was so close and soft on Alfred’s ear that he shivered. He glanced to Arthur; barely visible, but illuminated just enough so that he could see the pink of his lips. Alfred could not stop the loud thought in his head —

_(I wonder what it’s like to kiss him.)_

“Over there,” Arthur scoffed irritably, pointing towards the window just behind Matt. “I’m not imagining that, am I?”

The ghost box garbled again, the woman’s voice trembling but clear as day: “— _he’s here—”_

Alfred’s skin crawled at the sight, a definitive shadow of a person peering in from outside, looking in directly at Matt. “Um… Matt? What is that behind you?”

Matt’s eyes widened as he whirled around, dropping his flashlight with a yelp. The cabin went pitch black. There was a sudden crash as something dark and clawed scrambled across the floor, weaving between Alfred and Arthur’s feet with a hiss.

“Holy shit!” Alfred yelled, dropping the ghost box and bolting out of the cabin. The musty air of the river clung to him as he ran out into the forest, not even thinking twice about looking back. His legs just kept taking him further and further away, until he found himself scratched up, panting, and his heart pounding in his ears in complete darkness. Even the moon itself was empty and out of sight.

He heard Arthur’s voice calling from a distance: “Alfred…! Come back!”

“Arthur?” he yelled back. There was no sound beyond the echo of his voice, not even birds or crickets. Not even the running water of the river. He reached for his phone and used it as a flashlight, but all he could see was the thick tangle of tree trunks, branches, and moss. Groaning, he swallowed down his trepidation and began to backtrack. He started sweating underneath his hoodie, even though it was an early spring night in England — in other words, still cold and rainy. Twigs snapped beneath his shoes, and a few minutes later he started hearing the faint sound of rushing water. He followed it to the edge of the forest, wisps of fog rising from the ground , thickening as he found himself at a clearing.

The bridge was just up ahead. The others should be close by — and it seemed someone was already there.

“Hey!” he yelled at the figure on the bridge. With the fog so thick, it was hard to tell who it was. He stepped onto the bridge, causing it’s old wooden planks to groan. The river which had been so still and stagnant earlier that day had suddenly become wild; its waters ran ferociously beneath the bridge, the rush of it overpowering to his ears. The figure up ahead walked in a familiar way, fast paced and stiff like Arthur. And the closer Alfred got to him, the surer he was. It was definitely Arthur, briskly walking towards him, his brows furrowed. He was no more than a few feet away, but he seemed to be looking at something behind Alfred.

“Arthur? What’s wrong?”

Arthur broke into a run, sending Alfred’s chest into a heart-lurching panic as he startled to move out of the way. He wasn’t quick enough, and the strangest chill rained over him, as if Arthur had run straight through him. But that couldn’t have been what happened, right? Alfred whirled around, feeling nauseous as he saw Arthur still running.

“What the _fuck,_ ” Alfred muttered. He chased after him. “Arthur! Where are you going?”

He reached the end of the bridge, back on the cabin side of the river, and as the fog began to dissipate, apparently so did Arthur. Alfred stumbled to a stop for a moment to catch his breath, his heart still pounding in the silence of the river bank — the waters stagnant once more.

Alfred decided: Arthur must be heading back to the van. He wiped the sweat off his brow and took a deep breath as he eyed the vast expanse of forest before him. From here, he should be able to find the footpath back to the van. If he remembered correctly, it should be…

“Alfred!”

He whirled around, finding Arthur running up to him, his face flushed pink.

“Dude.”

“Where…” Arthur panted, resting his hands on his knees. “… the bloody hell did you go?”

“I _just_ saw you. How did you not see me?”

“What do you mean? When!”

“Like, just now!”

Arthur rolled his eyes as he straightened up. “Define ‘just now’.”

“Literally not even a minute ago. On the bridge! And I swear you were running in front of me —”

“Never mind, let’s just get back to the van. We’ve got enough footage for today,” Arthur said as he gestured in the vague direction in the footpath, and Alfred wasn’t really sure what he was thinking then or how he came to the conclusion that he was being asked for this — but he took hold of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur glanced down, his chest still rising and falling heavily from uncaught breaths. A tiny smile cracked onto his lips. “Alfred, are you scared?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s alright. I nearly pissed myself, too.”

Alfred laughed, a giddy feeling in his chest when Arthur didn’t let go. They found the end of the footpath and began making their way through with the shaky light of their phones.

“Ivan and Yao are laughing their asses off,” Arthur said. “Apparently we were spooked by a cat.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

“It’ll still make a good episode though.”

“I would hope so.”

Although the forest remained deathly quiet and terrifyingly dark, that concentration of warmth between his and Arthur’s palms kept him calm. Since that day, he’d tried explaining to Arthur what he saw on the bridge many times, but he never seemed to understand. Alfred wasn’t sure he ever understood it himself.

.

**WINNIPEG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. 8 AM.**

Alfred groaned as he leaned back into the softness of the airport lounge seat. “Can someone just kill me now? Kill me like this, in this chair. God, it feels so good I could die…”

With his eyes shut, he could only tell Ivan found that joke amusing by his ominous laugh. He barely got a pity snort from Francis.

“You should have followed your own advice,” Arthur said — and _yes!_ Despite the cutting remark, there was a little smile in there, too.

Alfred only hummed in response, thinking he could easily fall asleep. Throughout the entire ten-hour flight to Toronto, he just couldn’t get his brain to shut up. His stomach was a nervous knot thinking about what they’d have to do when they arrived at St. Agatha’s. So he watched movies on and off, until he eventually fell asleep to that Tom Hanks movie with the piano scene. He probably slept like, maybe four hours? And then another two on the plane ride to Winnipeg. That was six out of his ten usual hours of sleep, and he sorely felt the difference.

He reached for his coffee groggily, taking a scorching gulp of it. Yao and Francis were eating pastries of some kind… Ivan was drinking something out of a can, and he had a feeling it wasn’t soda or lemonade. Arthur was sat across from Alfred, his eyes wandering around absent-mindedly with a cup of tea between his palms.

“You’re not hungry, Arthur?” Alfred asked him.

“Hm?” Arthur’s olive-green eyes flitted to him. “Not really. I ate plenty on the plane ride here.”

“Oh… right…” Alfred rubbed his face. He took another scorching gulp, wanting the caffeine to start working already. He couldn’t think straight. He could barely follow the two separate conversations that were happening in front of him — Ivan and Yao were now drooling over the desserts menu, and Arthur and Francis were… What were they talking about? Alfred raised his phone up carefully, capturing the group within the frame and snapping a few pictures. Francis was leaning forward across the small table, resting his face in his hand and saying _something_ in that purring voice of his. Arthur was just listening, occasionally sipping his tea and giving some clipped response. Then a smile cracked.

“What was that?” Alfred asked, startling the two from their conversation. Arthur’s smile weakened.

“Oh… um…” Arthur furrowed his brows. “It’s difficult to explain. Have you ever heard of —”

“Y’know, I was thinking about that bridge on the way here.”

Arthur froze. Everyone else at the table rolled their eyes.

Alfred scoffed. “Oh come on, guys. What?”

Arthur gave an awkward glance to Francis, and that just about shot Alfred straight out of his tired haze. He jolted up in his chair, leaning forward with his arms crossed on the table.

“I have an explanation for it, you know,” Alfred said. “You ever hear about the stone tape theory?”

“You’re saying ‘theory’ but I have a feeling it’s more ‘speculation’,” Arthur said, stirring his tea and raising that taunting brow.

“Nice try, but it’s actually backed up by science.”

Ivan laughed again — he was always so responsive to the things Alfred said, but he wasn’t sure it was because he was amusing in the way he wanted to be.

“What science?” Ivan asked.

“Ugh, I forgot we have a physicist here.”

Ivan tipped the last of his drink into his mouth. “I studied biochemistry.”

“Whatever,” Alfred waved his hand dismissively. “You’re no geologist though, are ya? Did you know that crystalline rock, uh a.k.a. literally the bedrock everything is built on, can capture the energy of past events? That in the same way a tape can record sound and image, so can the architecture of the buildings and even the very ground beneath us. And that energy doesn’t just disappear. Every word, every act, is on constant replay, all around us, like echoes of the past. It’s spooky geology!”

“That… doesn’t…” Ivan pursed his lips. “Okay. Answer this, then. If everything is ‘recorded’, then why aren’t we bombarded with these recordings all the time?”

“I mean, only the really traumatic stuff has enough energy to stick around. Like death by murder. And all that excess energy — you can’t destroy energy, right! — all that extra energy has to go somewhere, so it gets stored in the crystals in like minerals, like in bricks, or in the rusty coatings of nails, and it causes these defects in the crystal structure —”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Alfred,” Ivan smiled, that sickly sweet smile used to placate children. “You’re just using science-like language to make it sound more plausible. I do not buy it.”

“Well, whatever, science is a hoax anyway. The point is,” Alfred paused, and realised that everyone was looking at him a little funny, yet again. “The point is, I think what I saw on the bridge was a recording.”

“Alfred, I did not see you on that bridge,” Arthur said, sighing.

“But see, that’s exactly what makes it so obviously paranormal! How could I have seen you then?” Alfred nodded, waiting for the others to supply the obvious answer. “Stone tape theory! I saw an imprint of Arthur!”

“No, Alfred, you’re misunderstanding me,” Arthur said. “I _did not see you_ _once_ on that bridge. I was waiting by that area the entire time after we ran out of the cabin.”

“What do you mean?”

“As in, the bridge was empty the entire time. And then out of nowhere there you were again on the cabin side of the river.”

“Well there was a lot of fog, so…”

“There was never any fog.”

“Oh…” Alfred frowned, a chill running down the sides of his arms. He definitely remembered being on that bridge. He was certain he’d seen Arthur. Laughing, he straightened up. “Well there you go! How do you explain _that_?”

Arthur hesitated, shrugging. “I… think you’re misremembering. Or perhaps you thought you were on the bridge. Maybe you even dreamed about it and thought it was real.”

“Oh, real classy, Arthur. So I’m making it up, right?”

“Alfred…”

Alfred rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. He grabbed his coffee and downed the rest. “It’s whatever.” He glanced at his phone. “The gate opens in two minutes. We should go soon.”

Arthur looked vaguely troubled; his lips pursed and his gaze awkward. He glanced over to Francis, and though no words were spoken, Alfred could feel that there was something said between them. He felt that awful stab of jealousy once more, that yearning for understanding Francis and Arthur seemed to have.

They boarded their plane for Shamattawa, and the tight knot in Alfred’s stomach only worsened knowing they were now not even a day away from stepping back onto the stone steps of St. Agatha’s Asylum. This next flight was as restless as the last. He couldn’t help but keep thinking about that bridge, about the river waters raging beneath his feet. He could still feel it — that icy feeling of Arthur walking straight through him, like he was nothing more than air. But it wouldn’t have been the first time that Alfred had seen things that were not there, especially where Arthur was concerned. It certainly wouldn’t be the last either.


	4. Snowstorm

**SHAMATTAWA AIRPORT, MANITOBA. 1 P.M.**

Arthur buried the lower half of his face into his woollen scarf, pulling his cap more snugly over his head and ears. He suddenly regretted ever moaning about England’s miserably cold and rainy weather — it was mild in comparison to this brutal Canadian winter. The horizon was a vast and flat expanse of grey sky and white snow, broken up only by the sparse clusters of dark forest and snow-covered bungalow homes in the distance. The group was now waiting outside the airport for a ride to Blackthorn village; their ride was over forty minutes late.

They remained huddled in the slight shelter of the airport building, where the punishing winds wouldn’t directly hit their bare faces. Except for Alfred, who was talking irritably over the phone a few feet away, seemingly too preoccupied to care about the bitter weather.

Francis idly stepped closer to Arthur, as if he was being discrete, shivering in his brown topcoat. He’d been warned about the weather, but presumably Francis wasn’t ready to sacrifice style for comfort. Admittedly, even hunched over and with the wind ruffling his hair into his face he looked good.

“You look troubled,” Francis purred. He then asked Arthur a question that had been uttered far too many times throughout the duration of this trip: “What’s wrong?”

Arthur sighed. “You should be asking _him_ that,” he said, watching Alfred pace and kick around the snow from the ground. Alfred had been sulking throughout the entire plane ride here, going so far as to even sit next to Ivan and Yao in silent protest (at what exactly, Arthur wasn’t too sure). It ticked Arthur in that awfully familiar way, a reminder of one of many reasons that he used to repeat to himself to will away that need for him — _he’s such a petty child_. And this was all probably because Arthur wouldn’t go along with that absurd theory of his.

“He’ll get over it,” Francis said. “Doesn’t he always?”

“I suppose,” Arthur replied, unable to help the twinge of pain that came with it. It was true — Alfred really did seem to forget most things with time.

He caught Francis looking at him in that concerned way again. Supposedly Francis was their replacement cameraman; he had a knack for photography and an artistic flair that would give Alfred the seriousness he would like for his investigations. But Francis had never expressed any interest in these fruitless investigations before, and the more Francis hovered around him, the more certain Arthur was that he had only come along out of misplaced concern.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said coldly before he could be asked, again.

Francis gave him the most infuriatingly pitiful look, but before he could say anything his eyes caught onto something behind Arthur. “Oh, look, he’s back.”

Arthur turned around — Alfred was slowly making his way back to them, his boots squeaking against the snow. His nose was tinged red from the cold, and so were the tips of his ears. He wasn’t wearing a hat, the fool.

“Well,” Alfred exhaled sharply. He paced around a little, his jaw hardened and square like he was gritting his teeth. “Apparently… There’s been a forecast of a storm coming this way in a couple of hours. And the driver isn’t risking coming here and getting caught up in it.”

Arthur blinked. “What.”

“Ugh. You’re telling me we could have waited inside this whole time anyway?” Yao said, shivering and sniffling. “I’ve been hopping around out here for nothing!”

“This is where the vodka would have come in handy,” Ivan said flatly, earning a glare from Yao.

Arthur furrowed his brows. His teeth chattered as he spoke. “What the bloody hell are we supposed to do then?”

“We should find somewhere to stay,” Francis said. “I’m sure someone will be willing to —”

“Ha. No. We’re not staying here for the night,” Alfred interrupted, before veering around and walking away with his hands stuffed into his pockets. “No. Nope. Not on my watch. Every day, every hour we get at St. Agatha’s counts. We are not staying here.”

“Hold on, where are you going?” Arthur called out.

“I’m getting us a ride out of here.”

“What?” Arthur glanced to Francis. “He’s mad if he thinks we’re hitching a ride out of here. The road isn’t even visible beneath the snow.”

Francis shrugged. “Let’s at least entertain him for a bit.”

Arthur laughed dryly. “You can go ahead and try. I’m staying here.”

“That sounds good,” Yao said, his eyes now watery. He sniffed. “We’re waiting inside right?”

“Yao, what’s wrong?” Francis asked.

“I’m fine! It’s just really cold.”

“Alright, Yao and I are staying in,” Arthur said. He looked to Francis and Ivan. “Are you two happy to babysit Alfred? You should probably go now before he disappears and does something stupid.”

Ivan glanced to Yao briefly before wordlessly walking in Alfred’s footprints. Francis made a promise to return as soon as possible and left with him. Arthur and Yao hurried back into the small airport building, though the inside wasn’t nearly as warm as he’d hoped it’d be. No one seemed to be around — their pilot had long since left, and no other plane would be landing for the day. They took a seat in a small waiting area, thankfully equipped with a drinks machine. There was only coffee, but Arthur would take any hot drink at this point.

Yao clambered onto his seat, with his knees hugged to his chest. He looked dwarfed by his puffy red parka coat, and woollen scarf, hat and gloves — and yet he was still shaking like a leaf in the wind. He rested his head on his knees and groaned dramatically.

“I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

Arthur only quietly sipped at his coffee, raising a brow.

“No, really,” Yao said, lifting his head slightly to peek through the layers of fabric. “Ask me how much I’m getting paid for this.”

“How much… _are_ you being paid?”

Yao laughed, fully lifting his head and looking smug. “I got myself a decent offer. At least I thought so at the time. Alfred was sorely mistaken thinking that surveillance and cleaning up EVPs were easy work.”

“Oh.”

“I asked for the money,” Yao piped up. “Don’t start thinking he offered me money to start with or anything. He assumed I was going to come along just for the nostalgia. Ha. Tough luck. I don’t miss our university days.”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“Well...” Yao hesitated, pursing his lips indecisively. “Sometimes I enjoyed them.”

“And you came back for a Masters, didn’t you?”

“To boost my job prospects, obviously.”

“Ah.”

A small silence fell again, broken up only by Yao’s sniffles. Arthur searched for something to say, but the truth was that he and Yao never really had a friendship of their own. Yao had always been loud and talkative within the group — matched only by Alfred in this regard — but he and Ivan had something special and secretive of their own that no one else was privy to.

“You know, if anyone is going to get us out of here,” Yao said eventually. “It’s going to be Ivan. He’s good at solving things. He’s gotten good at outdoorsy things, too. All he wants to do now is sleep in tents and chop wood — in the rain, in the snow, in the cold or blistering heat.” Yao nodded when Arthur glanced at him. “I never could, to be honest.”

“Well, it’s not the most comfortable is it?”

“I can handle sleeping on the ground! It’s the idea of being out in the middle of the woods, in complete darkness — that freaks me out. You couldn’t pay me enough to do that.”

“I mean, hasn’t Alfred in a way?”

Yao opened his mouth to reply, only to stop himself short for a moment. “Well. Once we’re at St. Agatha’s, and I’ve done my part setting up the cameras, I’m not stepping out of the van for _anything_. Never.” Yao swallowed. “I don’t care if the rest of you… need me again. Or Ivan. I’m not stepping out, and I’m not letting Ivan do it either.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quietly. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like then, back at St. Agatha’s, to have been searching for those keys in pitch-black darkness. He couldn’t guess as to what had even happened — Yao had gone catatonic for their entire trip home. Ivan had started collecting empty vodka bottles. “You saved our lives last time. You and Ivan. I’m not sure what would have happened to us if you didn’t.”

There was a spark of anger in Yao’s eyes, and Arthur steeled himself to be yelled at. Instead, Yao only sighed and looked away. “As long as Alfred doesn’t do anything stupid this time, we won’t have to.”

The doors burst open, letting in a flurry of snow as a flushed Francis rushed in. Panting, he still managed to flash a smile. “Alfred found us a ride.”

The two of them followed Francis out away from the airport. The road beside them was completely covered in snow, its twists and turnings only marked by small wooden posts. The few houses around them were quiet, though the occasional resident glanced out of their windows curiously. In most directions Arthur looked, he might have thought they were out in the middle of nowhere. They reached towards a small cluster of forest further out, and just at its edge Alfred was jumping up and down excitedly.

“What is he doing…” Arthur groaned.

Alfred and Ivan were hurriedly brushing the snow off a parked car. The car was — or rather, used to be — a teal green, though the paint seemed to have chipped off in most places. A thick layer of snow had accumulated on the top, and the windows seemed frozen over. One of the rear view mirrors was missing, and part of the front was bent from some sort of collision. Once Alfred had finished brushing as much snow off the windows as he could, he began rubbing the car handle and breathing on it, presumably to melt any ice.

“Um. Alfred…”

“She doesn’t look too bad, does she?” Alfred said, yanking at the door handle and only barely shifting the door. “Come on guys, help me warm it up.”

“You’re not thinking of just taking it, are you?” Arthur asked as he glanced around, though he knew the answer all too well. Alfred didn’t answer, presumably because he too knew it was a given.

“Look, man. Does this car look like it’s been used recently?”

Arthur frowned. “You’re joking.”

“And it’s parked all the way out here! Look at how much space there is out here. Every house has like a whole field’s worth of space, don’t you think the owner would park it close?”

“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions.”

With a crack, Alfred yanked the driver’s door open. “I’m making the best of a bad situation.” He slid into the driver’s seat, glanced at the ignition and grinned. “And it’s starting to look pretty good…” He pulled out the keys from the ignition and dangled them teasingly at Arthur. Something about that knowing smile sent a searing warmth to Arthur’s face, his body in sudden memory of the last time he had smiled at him like that.

“It seems a little too good to be true,” Arthur swallowed, “don’t you think?”

Alfred put the keys back in and revved up the engine, the car coming to juttery life. “We’ll let the engine melt the rest a little and then we’ll head out. Hey, don’t give me that look. You can stay out here if you don’t want to be an accessory to this.”

“I’d be something more like a hostage, if you ask me,” Arthur muttered, before begrudgingly joining the others in scraping off the snow.

.

**LONDON. THREE YEARS (AND SIX MONTHS) AGO.**

The pouring of rain had been washing the streets clean outside the pub, the wet pavement dazzled with the reflection of gold and red street lights as Arthur and Alfred swayed side by side. Alfred had easily slung his arm around Arthur, supposedly for balance though they both knew he was looking for it in the wrong person entirely. Arthur had drunk himself half-blind, his cheeks numb and the clumsiness of their steps endlessly amusing to him. He didn’t want Alfred to know it though. He had to sober up and take him home safely. The fool had gotten himself drunk enough to walk like he had no control of his limbs — then again it sometimes seemed as though Alfred had the ability to get drunk on fun alone and that he played it up for laughs.

Alfred halted abruptly, tugging Arthur by his shirt. “Dude… just carry me…”

“It’s only another two minute walk —”

“Or better yet.. leave me behind. It’s t… too late for me,” Alfred said, slurring and his grip on Arthur’s shoulder slipping. He faked a pained expression. “You gotta go on, Arthur. Live for the both of us.”

“Oh stop with the dramatics.”

“Please! Go!”

“Come on now.”

Alfred started to giggle, in a rare, genuine way. It wasn’t loud and theatrical, but soft and almost secretive. Arthur fought back his smile, his need to memorise that laughter, and wrestled Alfred from his spot to tug him back along their path home. The rain began to pour even harder by the time they reached the flat. Neither of them had bothered running, leaving their hair drenched and matted to their foreheads. Alfred hadn’t even bothered to bring a jacket or a hoodie, despite the evening chill, and his red t-shirt clung to his body in a way that meant Arthur had to carefully direct his gaze elsewhere.

Alfred had been touchy all evening. Initially, it hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary. A playful slap on the back, an annoying poke to get his attention. But in the pub they had sat close enough for their legs to touch, under the guise of an overcrowded table; when Arthur said something seemingly funny, and Alfred laughed, he touched him. He whispered things conspiratorially to Arthur, close enough to make him shiver with the warmth of his breath on his ear. Arthur had excused himself to the bathroom many times, splashing his face with cold water in an attempt to cool away the pink flush on his face — Alfred didn’t think of him like that. Alfred was lively, and charming, and breathed life into any room he walked into. At times, he showed inexplicable generosity, even when he was convinced the world was set up against him. Annoying as he was, Alfred seemed like he’d sprang out of a book — he was anything _but_ mundane.

They were stood shivering just outside their building as Arthur frantically searched his pockets for the keys.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered, knowing that everyone else in the flat was still out. He must have forgotten to bring them completely —

“Looking for these?” Alfred said, dangling the keys as he swayed close to Arthur. There was a flash of a smile on his face, a mischievous type as if they were breaking in somewhere.

“Where’d you get those?” Arthur asked, realising with embarrassment the slur of his words.

“You dropped them back at the bar.” Alfred’s face was so incredibly close, his pretty blue eyes carefully following Arthur’s lips — or was he imagining that? “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

“At the very last moment, it seems. Alright then… hand them over.”

Alfred yanked the keys up away from him with a laugh. He turned around to unlock the door, running up ahead to the elevator and leaving Arthur fuming and chasing after him.

The flat was nauseatingly warm when they arrived. All the lights were off, but Alfred clumsily charged on ahead regardless — towards Arthur’s room.

“Alfred, wrong direction.”

He flipped on the light switch, finding that Alfred was groaning and resting his head on Arthur’s door.

“I can’t go to bed yet. Can we hang out for a bit?”

“Let’s get you some water first,” Arthur said, drunk enough to easily take Alfred by the arm and lead him to the couch in the living room. He poured out two large glasses of water in the kitchen, bringing one over to a sprawled out Alfred. Arthur heavily set down next to him, gulping in ice cold water before leaning his head back with relief. The room was unnaturally silent.

“Hey…”

Arthur lolled his head towards Alfred. “Hm?”

“Do you remember when you met me?”

Arthur hummed for a little while, though he remembered the exact moment. He had gotten lost in the student union building, and Alfred was there with Matthew. Wearing his loud red hoodie and that chirpy smile, Arthur had somehow thought he was hired to guide students around. “It was at that god-awful society, wasn’t it?”

Alfred laughed. “Pear-shaped Society. Dude, what did you think it was?”

“Well, any normal person would think it was some sort of… gardening… volunteering society of sorts. I didn’t _realise_ that pear-shaped referred to the supposed shape of the bloody Earth.”

“I mean, okay, the theory is a little out there, but it raises some interesting questions, you have to admit.”

“The description was purposefully misleading! _Cultivating interest in the nature of the world around us_ — does that sound familiar to you?”

Alfred smiled sheepishly, his knee bouncing. “So you remembered that, huh?”

“Yes, well… A lot of things about that society were memorable, for all the wrong reasons.”

“Come on, Artie. You never wondered what was up with the footage of like, the Queen having reptilian eyes all of a sudden?”

“No!”

“But you _did_ stick around to find out.”

“Unfortunately, I did. Don’t ask me why,” Arthur sighed. He glanced over to find Alfred looking at him strangely. “What’s that face you’re making?”

“Man… I’m gonna miss you.”

Arthur felt a squeeze in his chest. “Don’t start. We’ll still talk. And you’re not leaving just yet, are you?”

“No…”

 _“_ There you go. There’s nothing to worry about now.”

Alfred pursed his lips, staring down at his empty glass, seemingly unsatisfied with that answer. He leaned his head back onto the couch, still looking at Arthur.

“I feel really warm.”

“That’s the alcohol.”

“I think it might be a fever, could you check?” he said, looking straight into Arthur’s eyes brazenly. Neither of them believed a single word of that request, but Arthur complied anyway. He put the back of his hand to Alfred’s forehead — warm but not feverish.

“You’re alright,” Arthur said softly.

Alfred reached for Arthur’s hand, bringing it to press against his cheek as he sighed. Arthur’s throat felt dry as he swallowed. He was thinking dangerous things. How was it that Alfred could look at him like that, with such tender admiration? What was he even seeing?

“We should eat,” Arthur said abruptly, standing up quickly from the couch. He swayed a little but did his best to look controlled; from here to the kitchen, glass firmly in hand, steps measured and steady. His breaths even. He pulled out some leftover pasta from the fridge and stuck it in the microwave. He waited there and watched the bowl turn slowly, trying to get his mind to do the same, to not flash through what-ifs and wishes and wants —

The kitchen door creaked as Alfred entered. Arthur whirled around, finding him standing close — something raw in the look on Alfred’s face, something almost like fear.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked quietly, his voice barely audible. Alfred tentatively brought his hand up to Arthur’s chest, before leaning in. Arthur felt the first brush of Alfred’s lips against his — slightly chapped and rough, but almost too gentle, like he was afraid. Arthur shut his eyes and kissed him back, gently pulling him by the arm to draw him in. Alfred sighed into his mouth like this was a relief, their still rain-soaked bodies now pressing together. It was the first time Arthur had ever kissed anyone, and at the time he didn’t know what he was doing (arguably, he still didn’t). By the sloppiness of Alfred’s kiss, he suspected it might have been his first, too.

The microwave had long since started to beep, but it felt too good to really care. Alfred’s hips pressed up against him, pinning him against the kitchen counter; that was when Arthur’s heart started pounding differently, when the desperate running of Alfred’s hands from his chest down to his ass started to make him feel a strange sense of panic. How was this what Alfred wanted? Something didn’t feel right — the way Alfred’s lips had moved down to his throat, the way his hands grabbed Arthur desperately. Alfred shouldn’t be enjoying his body _that_ much, and until now he never did. So what was different now?

Alfred slowed down to a halt, pulling away slightly to look at Arthur. He felt frozen stiff against the counter, mortified by the way Alfred was looking at him, the way his gaze seemed to swim, unable to hold steadily onto anything.

“I’m sorry…” Alfred croaked out. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m really drunk.”

Arthur’s throat was caught with a feeling too painful to name at the time. In retrospect, he knew it was something like heartbreak. The feeling of realising that he wasn’t anything but something warm to grab, a drunken mistake, to someone he felt so inexplicably and infuriatingly attached to. But if there was any one thing he could do, any last defence, it was to pretend he felt nothing at all.

“You should go to bed, then,” Arthur said, his voice cold and brittle; at the time it felt like such a victory. He stepped away from between Alfred and the counter, straightening his shirt. “Don’t worry. I’ve forgotten all about it already.”

Alfred didn’t look at him once. Just at the floor, nodding. “… Yeah. That’s probably for the best.”

Sleep never came for Arthur that night. All he could do was linger over the memory of that kiss, wondering about what could have happened, swinging between elation and heartbreak as he realised how pointless this all was. Alfred was drunk. It probably meant nothing to him. And even if it did, what good would it do anyway? They’d be parting ways regardless.

.

**SOMEWHERE IN MANITOBA. 4 PM.**

They had been on the road for about two hours now. The car engine was loud, and the seats rattled as if they were dangerously low to the ground. The A/C snapped and clicked incessantly, and the snow outside had begun to pile up to the point of making the road ahead barely visible. It didn’t help that the front window was completely smashed on the passenger side. _Storm incoming, indeed_ , Arthur thought anxiously, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he watched outside the window for the same blur of grey on white.

Out here, the radio was nothing but fuzz. Alfred had found an old CD in the glove compartment — an 80s mixtape.

“Feels like we’re heading out to a ski resort, doesn’t it?” Alfred laughed. He glanced back from the driver’s seat when no one responded. “Get it? Like… like those movies… Okay…”

Arthur didn’t even glance over. He pressed his temple to the cold glass of his window. Francis was in front of him on the passenger seat next to Alfred, unfolding and refolding a yellowed and worn out map.

“How much longer?” Yao whined, sinking into his seat. He’d been asleep and quiet on Ivan’s shoulder for a good hour or so, but now he was awake, irritated, and loud.

“If we are where I think we are…” Francis said, running his finger down the map. “We are, optimistically, halfway there.”

Yao groaned. A small pause. “Ivan, did you stash any bottles on you from the plane?”

Ivan chuckled. “Yaochka, you know they’re all gone.”

Yao hummed disapprovingly. Arthur tried not to think about the intimacy between those two. Not because he minded — those two had been stupidly infatuated with each other since their first year at university, but seemingly never got to doing anything about it until after graduation. Some secret, romantic part of Arthur found it endearing. But another, darker part felt some sort of awful stab. It wasn’t just Yao and Ivan that made him feel this way. It was any couple. Any two passers-by linking hands, any dancing couple, any kiss; it all made Arthur feel taunted, unworthy. He’d been nothing more than a —

The car engine made a terrible noise — a loud bang.

“The fuck…” Alfred muttered under his breath as the car slowed to a crawl. And then it just stopped. The white and grey blurs outside Arthur’s window halted, and he could see the individual flurries of snow whirling by.

“Um… Alfred, you accidentally pressed down on the brake or something, right?” Yao asked. Arthur sighed and turned his head to look around at everyone else. He did say it, didn’t he? _Too good to be true._

“No,” Alfred snapped, taking the keys out of the ignition and trying to start the car again, with no success. “FUCK!”

Francis cringed and seemed to want to shrink in his seat. “Alfred, perhaps we should call someone —”

Alfred got out and slammed the door behind him.

Francis blinked, unimpressed. “That’s the second time a perfectly sensible idea has been shot down…” He sighed and pulled out his phone, presumably to call emergency services. Arthur didn’t bother bursting that bubble of hope by telling him that even if someone came out to help, it would be several hours at the very least — not to mention the storm.

“Someone should really see what he’s doing,” Ivan said, pointing through the window to an Alfred jogging away in the snow. He glanced to Arthur. “Your turn to babysit.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That troublesome little —”

He zipped up his coat and got out of the car. His face was whipped by the cold sting of the wind, the flurry of snow making it hard to see that far ahead. “ALFRED!” he yelled, running after him. “ALFRED, YOU IDIOT! GET BACK HERE.”

He groaned. That fool was really testing him. The snow was so deep that it reached halfway up his calves, his trousers already starting to soak. Alfred had to resort to running with his knees high, and if there was any one consolation about all of this, it was that he looked bloody stupid doing it. Where was he even going? When Alfred stopped to take a breather, Arthur found his chance and caught up to him. He took a glance back to check the car was still within sight. Just barely.

“We really need to stay close to the road,” he said, taking hold of Alfred’s shoulder thinking he might try and bolt again. “This storm is nothing to take lightly.”

“Yeah, well… Neither is this investigation. Neither is our search for Matt —”

Arthur yanked Alfred around to face him. “It’s certainly not happening if we freeze to death out here,” he snapped.

Alfred glared back at him, too close, too intensely. But Arthur didn’t feel burned by it — whatever deadly glare, or spiteful remark Alfred could throw at him, he would return it three-fold. It was that touch that bothered him, the solid and familiar feel of Alfred’s shoulder through that thin grey parka (what was he thinking, wearing _that_?).

He released his grip. “We’re going back to the road,” he said, quieter now. “And we’re looking for help there.”

Alfred pulled himself away wordlessly, trudging back towards the car. Arthur sighed and followed. There was a line of trees barely visible up ahead, a forest that they were supposed to drive through. At the very least, the trees would shelter them a little from the snow and wind if they couldn’t find anyone. Arthur went to tell Alfred this, only to find that he was charging up ahead and ignoring his calls. He wouldn’t let Arthur catch up with him either — every time he got close Alfred would childishly start breaking into a run. At first it was very obviously an attempt at giving him the cold shoulder, but inevitably, eventually, a smile cracked.

“You’re a good friend, Artie,” Alfred panted as he waited for Arthur to catch up. He slapped Arthur hard on the back when he did. “I probably would have died a million deaths if it wasn’t for you.”

“Well… I wouldn’t say a _million_ ,” Arthur said, flinching from the slap and trying not to think too much about it. “But you do have a worrying predilection for life-threatening situations…”

Alfred laughed, softly now, and it took Arthur unexpectedly back to that drunken night. Why was it that he so rarely heard that laughter? And why now, why this smile when only moments ago Alfred was happy to leave him behind in the snow? Nothing ever felt certain with him, and it was exactly this that he had been afraid the moment Alfred had reappeared into his life. It was this uncertainty, these moments of dangerous hope, that threatened to break him all over again.

“Dude.” Alfred grabbed Arthur’s coat just as they stepped onto the road. Francis and the others glanced over at them, looking confused, from inside the car. “See that?” Alfred turned towards the forest.

“See what?”

“Up there.” Alfred pointed above the distant tree tops. “I can smell it, too. Smoke.”

Arthur squinted. “I’m not sure I see or hear anything like that —”

“I’ll race ya!”

Alfred bolted up ahead, kicking up snow as he ran down the road and into the forest. Arthur blurted out in curses, scrambling to run after him.

“ALFRED, YOU MINDLESS TWAT.”

The cold air ached in his lungs as he panted, running to keep up with that stupid boy. The forest was incredibly dark, even in the day, as the pine trees covered the sky so thickly that barely any snow or light could pass through. He followed Alfred’s grey parka, calling after him but only getting the occasional glance back. Arthur could soon smell the smoke — and something cooking, something brothy. Caution suddenly flooded him; there was someone out here, but they had no idea what kind of person that someone was.

“FUCK YES,” Alfred yelled, far too loudly in a forest that carried his echo. He made a sharp turn into what looked like a dirt driveway. Arthur skidded to a stop. There was a small cabin up ahead, smoke billowing out of its chimney. A muddy van was parked out front, and flannel clothes had been inexplicably left out to dry by the driveway, frozen and shifting stiffly in the wind.

“Um…” Arthur started, his brows furrowing. He glanced to Alfred standing at the door, already knocking furiously. “Alfred, I think this may be…”

The front door groaned open, followed by the heaviest sigh. Alfred paled, stumbling back.

“Wh- You - _What?_ ”

“Yeah… I should have expected as much,” James said as he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, revealing a sleepy gaze and dark eye circles. His hair was loose across his shoulders, and the usual stubble was resembling more a beard.

Alfred exhaled sharply. “James, what the fuck?”

“I was kinda hopin’ you’d drive right past me,” James said.

Arthur had a feeling they couldn’t have even if they tried. The flannel clothes hanging outside were just too strange and too distinct. But he kept his mouth shut on that.

“Would you mind letting us in for a moment?” he asked instead, ignoring Alfred’s incredulous glance at him.

James grunted. “Alright. Guess I can’t leave you two out here. Come on in.”

.

The inside of James’ cabin was tiny but it was jam-packed to the brim with shelves upon shelves of jars, cans, rifles, and blankets. A small tin pot was boiling and spitting over a fire, wafting a strong brothy smell. The warmth of the place melted Arthur right through to the bone; he sank into the small armchair James had offered him, the feeling in his fingertips returning to him. Alfred had taken his seat on the floor right in front of the fire, sighing loudly.

“Alright, now that I’ve warmed up, can you tell us what the hell is going on?”

James stared vacantly at Alfred, still standing with his back to the front door.

“Come on, man, you never replied!” Alfred stood up. “I thought you were dead. Or….” He squinted. “Or _are_ you —”

“It would have been better if it stayed that way,” James finally said. “If you never found me.”

“What do you mean?”

James hesitated to answer. His gaze darted around the floor and he eventually took his seat on the arm of a chair, hunching forward towards Alfred. “You saw that video, didn’t you? You’ve been there yourself. In the underbelly of the place.”

“You mean the underground hallways?” Arthur asked.

Alfred frowned. “I thought you said they didn’t exist.”

“They revealed themselves to me,” James said, a small tremor in his voice. His gaze was frozen and fixed on Alfred, wide eyed as if he was somewhere else entirely. “And I stepped right in…”

“Oh stop it, there’s nothing there,” Arthur said. “The most dangerous thing is that place is the asbestos.”

“Dude, how can you say that?” Alfred asked. “You fucking saw it, too.”

“I saw a bat startled by the flash of our lights,” Arthur said measuredly, though he knew no creature moved like that in the air. “And your screaming scared the rest of us out of there.”

“I don’t scream!”

“Fine, your yelling.”

“I don’t yell either!”

Arthur raised a brow at him. “Really.”

“I’m not talking about the basement,” James said irritably. “I’m not talking a-about flying chairs or moving curtains or any fake shit like that.”

“What the hell are you talking about then?”

“Nevermind,” James said. He slid off the chair and grabbed a near-empty cigarette packet. He shakily lit a cigarette in the corner, before crushing the packet and throwing it on the wonky — seemingly handmade — coffee table. “I’m not gonna pretend I don’t know what you’re here for,” he said, puffing out a cloud of smoke with a sigh. “You want a ride there, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” Arthur said, watching James pace irritably around the room. “We broke down not far from here.”

James grunted, running a tired hand through his dishevelled hair. “I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in 15 years until I went down there. Do you understand what that even means? I had been keeping unlit cigarettes in my mouth for _fifteen years_. Never broke my resolve until I saw the hell that was living down there.”

“Look, all we’re asking for is a ride to the place,” Alfred said. “You don’t even have to step in.”

“I don’t live that kind of life anymore,” James said. “I can’t look in mirrors. I keep the lights on all night. I don’t even open my curtains in case I see a face in the window.” He laughed dryly. “Even — even the space under my bed is stuffed with stacked newspapers! That… that place is something else. No living thing should go there.”

“But... _why_?” Alfred asked. “Why didn’t you —”

“Why didn’t I try to stop you?” James interrupted. His eyes softened. “Nah… I knew I couldn’t. I don’t have a chance convincing you otherwise. But no one can convince _me_ to come along.”

Alfred glanced at Arthur, a quiet question of, _what now?_

 _“_ Then all you have to do is drive us to town,” Arthur said. “To Blackthorn.” He glanced at the empty packet of cigarettes lying crushed on the table. “I can see you’re out of cigarettes anyway.”

James glanced up at Arthur from his dazed look. His dark gaze sent chills down Arthur’s spine, like something inside that head of his had become unhinged, a bone that had broken and healed the wrong way. He crushed his burnt out cigarette into one of many ashtrays before giving a smokeless sigh of resignation. The wind outside was now howling, the thin streak of light from between the heavy curtains fading. Alfred gave Arthur a secret smile, of mischievous triumph, but all Arthur could do was smile weakly back. Their trip to St. Agatha’s would remain on course. Somehow, it felt nothing like victory.


	5. Arrival

**BLACKTHORN VILLAGE. 7 PM.**

The sight of the village was dully familiar to Alfred; he remembered that last time the sky had been a little brighter at this hour, revealing in full colour the surrounding evergreen mountains that enclosed the place, the disused railway that had been shrouded in vines and the roots of trees, and the old chapel which had been painted a canary yellow for some inexplicable reason. Now in winter, three years later, he could only see stark fragments of what wasn’t covered in snow or shadow. Inside the van it had been quiet — James turned off the radio when they arrived, as if worried the very sound would disturb the few residents who still lived here.

The inside of the inn, though, that hadn’t changed one bit. Not even the regulars, who glanced over curiously when they sat at a booth for six.

“Don’t be shy with the food,” James huffed out, taking out his fresh pack of cigarettes. He averted his eyes from passers-by who seemed to recognise him. “It may be your…” He trailed off and pursed his lips. The words resonated in everyone else’s minds anyway: _It may be your last meal._ “It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

No one said anything in response. Yao was tight-lipped, staring vacantly into the wood of the table. Ivan had gotten up to make an order at the bar already. Arthur looked a little out of it, as if not quite registering what was happening, and Francis fumbled with the camera in his hands. Alfred himself felt off — his hands were clammy and cold, and his stomach was in knots. By tomorrow morning, they’d be back at St. Agatha’s. They’d be back in the dark, tomb-like hallways, and Alfred told himself that the shakiness in his chest was instead the excitement of a second-chance.

“I’ll probably just have a light dinner…” Francis said.

“Same here,” Arthur said, and Yao across from him nodded silently.

“Suit yourselves,” James said, raising his brows as he lit a cigarette. He glanced over to Alfred. “You?”

Frankly, the idea of stuffing a burger down his mouth made Alfred a little nauseous, too, but he didn’t want anyone to think he was scared or anything. “Oh, you know, I never got to try the Double Trouble special last time, so I’ll probably go for that.”

James seemed to suppress a smile. “Go for it.”

By the time they all went up to the bar to make their orders, Ivan had already populated their table with pints of beer for everyone. “Liquid courage,” Ivan had said, pushing one of the pints towards Yao. Arthur had happily started gulping down from his, his cheeks dusted pink within minutes. Alfred was tempted to bring out his phone and take a picture of it — better yet, bust out the camera and start filming. He glanced to Francis, who held the camera in his lap absent-mindedly as he mumbled to Arthur.

“Hey, Fran, get some video,” Alfred said, nodding towards the camera. “We can interview everyone and get James to give us the backstory of the place.”

Francis glanced at Arthur as he turned on the camera and pointed it hesitantly at the table. Ivan sighed irritably as he set his half-empty drink down.

“We already know,” Ivan said, glaring.

“Um, our new audience won’t.”

Ivan tilted the camera to face him, his voice gravely as he stared into the lens. “We… are going to stand at the doorway to hell —”

Yao clutched at his shoulder. “Ivan, cut it out.”

“ — where men and women were tortured, raped, and killed at the mercy of these so-called psychiatrists, and rather than doing anything about it we scramble over their unmarked graves a century later pretending we can hear voices so we can feel special.” Ivan shifted his sardonic glare to Alfred, his eyes a little sleepy.

Their stare was broken by the sound of Arthur gagging. He abruptly stood from his seat, wide-eyed, and left. Alfred went to stand up, only for Francis to drag him by the arm back to his seat.

“He needs space from all of this,” Francis said sharply. “Don’t go and make it worse.”

Alfred scoffed, yanking himself away. “What the fuck is wrong with everybody? You’re all acting like we’re walking to a death sentence or something.”

The table fell silent again, and when the food arrived shortly they barely touched it. Alfred forced himself to eat regardless of the nervous buzz in his chest, taking large bites of his dinner — two burgers and way too many sides — in an attempt to suffocate the restless, dreadful feeling. Francis momentarily turned off the camera, but when it became apparent no one but Alfred and James was eating, he started filming again around the inn and got shots of their sullen, gloomy table. The silence was overbearing, and Ivan’s words still rattled irritably in Alfred’s head.

“You know… We’re revealing the truth,” Alfred said, startling everyone. He looked to Ivan, specifically. “This isn’t for entertainment. It’s real. Real lives and real voices we’re documenting in places like St. Agatha’s.”

Yao averted his eyes to the window, which was too dark to give any sort of view. Francis pointed his camera at Ivan in wait of his response.

Ivan shook his head, chuckling softly. He tapped at his temple. “It’s all in here.”

“Ha. Right. So what we saw at St. Agatha’s, that was a shared delusion right? We all saw the same shit, from different locations within asylum, at a point where we had no communication with each other.”

“We all saw different things. You were not in the woods when I found that creature. Mine had horns, like a devil. Yao’s was a man in a hospital gown bent backwards on all fours. You and Arthur, you both saw something else entirely. And the cameras? They caught nothing.”

“Bullshit! We caught everything.”

“Caught what?” Ivan asked, and the silence he left Alfred with was taunting. “Some whispers? A shadow peering out at you? A brick?”

“A brick being thrown straight at us. And yeah, Ivan, some whispers and shadows. Proof is proof.”

“Is that what people thought?” Ivan rubbed his jaw, smiling cruelly. Alfred wanted to lunge across the table and strangle him. Of course people saw it as proof. Some of them at least. A few who had commented enthusiastically when he had uploaded the video. Well. Maybe one seemed to take it seriously. Many others thought the flying brick was rigged. Thousands more who watched said nothing. The world kept turning. Matt was gone, and it meant nothing. Alfred had taken the video down no more than a month later.

“What are you even here for?” Alfred said. “Hm?”

Ivan raised his brows, but pretended to not hear the question. Arthur returned to the table, the pink flush on his face completely drained away. He looked a little strange, his eyes glassy and vacant. Francis scooted over for him, glancing over at him in concern.

“You okay, Arthur?” Alfred asked before Francis could beat him to it.

“Um…” Arthur blinked as he took his seat. “Yeah. Yes. I’m… Alright.”

“You don’t sound it.”

Arthur shook his head. “I just need to sleep,” he said quietly. Alfred pursed his lips, wishing he’d sat closer. Instead, Francis was there asking him murmured questions and offering a glass of water. Alfred suddenly longed for the days when he and Arthur were stuck to each other like that, almost never seen without the other. He longed for that one and only kiss they shared — the exhilarating relief of finally feeling the softness of Arthur’s lips between his, of sharing those few breaths together before it all collapsed. Inevitably, he then recalled the way Arthur had stiffened in his arms, his lips regretful and no longer reciprocating. It had been a mistake on Alfred’s part; he never had the guts to do anything about those lingering feelings until he was drunk and stupid and desperately hopeful enough, and he never felt as brave since.

The rest of the night crawled by. When the time came to close his eyes and sleep, all he could dream of was his own descent down the steps within St. Agatha’s, one step after the other, never reaching the bottom.

.

**ST. AGATHA’S ASYLUM. 8 AM.**

Instead of rotten leaves, everything was now coated in ice and snow. The overgrown weeds and shrubs were dried and black, their branches peeking through a foot of snow. The asylum’s howling mouth — the great entrance door made of rusted metal — was left slightly ajar, a remnant of James’ escape over a month ago.

Alfred felt a shakiness in him as the van pulled up past the iron gates. He almost thought he could smell the rotten, mildew-like smell of the hallways from here. The van stopped with a jolt, just past the iron gates. He switched off the engine and there was a collective sound of sighs and nervous murmurs among the group. There were two heavy plastic bags in the back on the van waiting to be buried on the asylum grounds, stained pink.

“I’m not taking a single step onto the grounds,” James had said this morning, when they were all stood outside the inn shivering not from the cold but from the sheer dread of where they were about to go. “But there’s one thing I need you all to do for me. Not that it made much difference last time, but…”

He wanted them to bury raw meat. Arthur was the first to suggest they dump it somewhere on the way instead (which was easily seconded by Francis and Yao), but Alfred wasn’t willing to experiment and find out what would happen if they didn’t follow James’ instructions.

Alfred exhaled sharply and hopped out the van. He peeked in through the open door. Everyone else looked hesitant to leave the van. “Alright, who’s coming with me to feed the grounds?”

Yao groaned. “Why do you have to say it like that?”

“Alfred, just forget the bags,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes though he looked deathly pale. “We have a lot to do before nightfall.”

“Come on, it’s just two little bags!”

Francis scoffed. “Little?”

“Fine,” Ivan said, climbing out of the van. “Let me do it.”

Alfred slapped him on the back. “Good man.”

Ivan shook his head dismissively. Everyone got out of the van, and the opened up the back to reveal the two large plastic bags. Yao made a noise of disgust and walked away. Alfred and Ivan grabbed the bags. Alfred’s was so heavy he had to drag it out.

“Shit, did James give us an entire cow or something? It’s not just me, right? This is hella heavy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ivan said, lifting his up though he was shaking. Show-off.

Alfred yanked at his bag, only to tear it open and spill pieces of meat and bone onto the snow-covered ground, blood spreading through and turning it pink. Alfred cursed under his breath. Picking it all up was going to be a nasty job. Not even a second later, Arthur dashed away into the woods.

“Arthur!”

This time, Francis didn’t stop him from following after. Alfred bolted into the woods where Arthur had disappeared into, ducking and cursing when a small branch scratched against his face. In this state the woods were mostly sparse, the trees naked and bleak; it was easy to spot Arthur hunched over not too far away, retching into the snow.

“Dude, what is up with you?” Alfred asked, feeling a bit helpless watching Arthur spit and dry heave at the ground by a tree. His lips were quivering, and his pale fingers grasping at the dry bark.

“Nothing,” Arthur said hoarsely, shutting his eyes for a moment. “It’s just… all a bit much.”

Alfred stepped a bit closer, stupidly tempted to reach out and stroke Arthur’s hair. Is this what Arthur had been doing yesterday at the inn? Puking his guts out from the nauseating fear of what was about to come next? Alfred reached out to comfort him, only to chicken out at the last second and place his hand on Arthur’s shoulder instead.

“We’ll be okay,” he said, a blatant lie to his own ears. “We’re prepared this time, you know?”

Arthur hummed — whether that was agreement, or doubt, he wasn’t sure. Arthur exhaled long and hard before standing up with a slight wobble. Despite the ice-cold air, his face was pale and sweaty. “It’s funny this should be happening.”

“Us coming back here?”

“Well. That, and… you coming after me in the woods, again.”

“Oh.” Alfred stood there dumbly for a moment, before chuckling at the memory. “Yeah, you were taking a dump or something, weren’t you?”

Arthur scoffed, as if offended by the mere idea that he had excretory functions. “No.”

Alfred blinked. “Oh my god, you really were jacking it.”

“No! Christ, Alfred, _no_.”

“Then what were you doing out here for like, half an hour?!”

Arthur rolled his eyes up to the overhead branches. “Half an hour is a bit of an exaggeration…” He shook his head. “Anyway. We should go back before the others think we’ve been snatched or eaten or some horror-trope like that.”

“Dude, you’re really not going to tell me?”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up. And… it’s really not that… It’s nothing. Stop acting like my bathroom break three years ago is some sort of mystery.”

“Oh _man_ ,” Alfred laughed. “Now you have to tell me.”

Arthur gave him an exasperated sigh, but Alfred saw the slight amusement on his face at that moment. A small silence fell between them, but he could see that words were forming on Arthur’s lips.

“What is it?”

“Do you really think we’ll find him?” Arthur asked, stopping still in the snow, his pinched gaze trained on his boots. Somehow, it didn’t really sound like a question. “Is this really what the investigation is about?”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur sighed irritably and glanced up at Alfred, his eyes a brilliant green in contrast to the bleak nature around them. He never could capture the way he saw Arthur’s eyes on camera. “You know we’re not really going to find him, right? Alive, I mean. You know that.”

Alfred knew. He knew that at best, they would only find an echo of Matt. Maybe a body, if they were lucky. Unidentifiable bones. He nodded at Arthur.

“I know, Artie.”

“Then why are we here?” Arthur asked, his voice strained. “What’s the point?”

Alfred himself wasn’t really sure _what_ he was hoping to get out of all this. Was the proof they would gather today really going to be enough? Was that really what he wanted? Some part of Alfred knew, looking into Arthur’s pained eyes, that something had irrevocably changed since that day three years ago. That whatever happened here in St. Agatha’s was to blame, surely. And he knew, in his gut, that he had never really left this place since. He shrugged and turned back around, heading to the van. A long moment later Arthur’s footsteps, crunching in the snow, start to follow after him.

They reached the van and began setting up. Ivan had already buried the stupid ritualistic offerings James insisted on. Francis began filming, tentatively skirting around the building, as if afraid to get too close. When the time came to set up the cameras, no one wanted to be alone — everyone went in pairs, even though it took much longer that way. Each spot in the asylum was no longer just a local tale. The rumours of whispers and floating faces in mirrors were now lived memory, sending shivers down Alfred’s back as he taped an ‘X’ over the spots where he had stood terrified all those years ago.

By the time they were finished, the ground beneath their feet was barely visible. Night had fallen earlier than Alfred had anticipated; then again, this was St. Agatha’s bleak winter, not fall. Yao and Ivan had retreated to the van, and confirmed over walkie talkie that the cameras were working just fine. Nothing strange this time. Francis and Arthur met Alfred at the entrance of St. Agatha’s, their faces noticeably pale and wary. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the heaviness of the air, as if it was weighing down in his lungs as the entrance of the asylum stood there waiting for him, like an open mouth ready to engulf them all once more.

The keys in Alfred’s hand were cold, despite being in his grasp all afternoon. He wouldn’t throw them away — but he had a feeling they would do little to help this time. He opened the doors to St. Agatha’s and exhaled shakily, as he faced the pitch black darkness ahead and prepared to walk through what may as well have been the doorway to hell.


	6. Trapped

**ST. AGATHA’S ASYLUM. 3 YEARS (AND 3 MONTHS) AGO.**

Matt’s heart felt like a hummingbird that was about to burst out of his chest. He had long since dropped his flashlight, when the brick flew and the screaming had first started, and could only peer through the night-vision of his shaky camera. The hallways felt so much smaller, like they were squeezing in on him, and every shadowy corner held a dreadful promise. He just needed to get back upstairs, but no amount of retracing his steps seemed to get him closer to the stairwell. Every time he called for the others, he only got his echoes as a reply. His throat felt tight. There were no windows down here either, no sign of life outside of this place.

He placed his trembling right hand on a wall, the chipped paint rough and strangely damp on his palm as he walked. He was so lightheaded that the ground beneath him seemed almost foggy, his vision wispy. He would find those stairs eventually. He had to.

“ _I can’t._ ”

Matt froze where he was, his head pounding. That unfamiliar whisper had come from just up ahead. He was sure he heard it, he was _sure_ , and the pitch black darkness up ahead only taunted him to come and see just what horror could possibly be waiting for him. His hand hesitated on the wall, but there was nowhere else to go. He was sure he could hear breathing — not his own panicked gulps of air, someone else’s. Swallowing, he stepped forward.

“Hello?” he called out, and the breathing stopped. Silent, save for the inexplicable drips of water from the ceiling, falling like light rain. Matt trudged forward, focusing only on what the camera could illuminate, too scared to imagine who or what could be watching him from the shadows. Although the hallway was now completely silent, he knew there was someone there. He felt their eyes. The fog at his feet had climbed higher, obscuring the ground completely and rising to his waist. The air was thinner. His limbs were heavier. He tried to pull back but before then the shadows surged forward and swallowed him completely.

.

**PRESENT DAY. 8 PM.**

There was no light inside the asylum foyer — only the sound of rattling chains and the padlock clicking with a resounding finality. The keys jingled in the palm of Ivan or Yao’s hand as their footsteps crunched further and further away in the snow. Alfred switched on his flashlight, illuminating the puffy clouds of his and the others’ breaths in the icy air. His palms were sweating so much he had to wipe them on his hoodie.

“Okay, okay… _okay._ ” Alfred’s breaths grew fuller, the air feeling too little in his lungs. He paced around and muttered under his breath when he noticed a blinking red light staring at him. Francis was pointing the camera at him. “Crap, man, are you recording?”

“Shouldn’t I be?” Francis asked. He sounded a little too calm — or maybe Alfred was just spiralling out of control already. He had to pull himself together; this entire investigation had been his decision, after all. Only now, when faced with the reality of it, doubt had begun to creep in.

Alfred exhaled sharply. “Okay. Fuck. Arthur, you got the ghost box, right?”

“ _Yes,_ Alfred,” Arthur said, furrowing his brows. “We’ve got everything.”

“Good, good,” Alfred swallowed, finding it hard to keep his gaze steady on Arthur, who now looked concerned. It rattled a distant memory in him, of reaching in the dark to hold Arthur’s hand in those creepy woods.

_(Alfred, are you scared?)_

Only back then, Arthur smiled at him. Now he felt like some stranger, some impostor who Arthur couldn’t trust. The thought made Alfred’s chest ache. No, he couldn’t be thinking about that, not here, not now. He slowed his breaths and steadied his gaze on the camera. “We start in three, two, one…” His head was empty, and all that now came out were the scripted words: “Three years later, we’ve returned to St. Agatha’s for one final investigation to retrace our steps and find out what really is at the heart of one of Ontario’s most haunted locations…”

The three of them moved down the main corridor, ignoring the upstairs rooms for now — those had only been for appearances anyway, sterile waiting rooms and doctor’s offices perversely decorated with framed awards. It was the lower levels where it all really happened, where the lingering echoes of the asylum’s prisoners resided. The ground level floor was famous for one particular patient, a shadow woman who peered into rooms and around hallway corners, only ever visible in peripheral vision. She was silent for the most part, but the sound of her ragged breaths sometimes gave her away. Yet, today, the entire floor was unusually quiet. There was barely even the sound of the howling winds outside, the usual croaks and groans of old floorboards. It was as if the asylum itself was holding its breath. They carefully stepped over rubble and knocked over wheelchairs, too afraid to make any noise themselves.

Alfred glanced over at Arthur walking next to him, their shoulders bumping from their proximity in the narrow hallway. It was so dark that he could only see part of Arthur’s face as their lights scattered around. He remembered how quiet Arthur had been last time they were here — that it had been more than just the overbearing air of the asylum, that the tension between them had long since reached a breaking point because of what Alfred had done. He was tempted to reach for Arthur’s coat so he wouldn’t lose him in the dark, but he was too scared to even try.

Arthur took over the narration and shakily recounted the history of the place, looking over his shoulder to face the camera. The way the words trembled from his mouth had Alfred almost consider just grabbing him by the arm and dragging him far away from this place, though nothing had even happened yet.

“St. Agatha’s was originally built as a sanatorium of sorts,” Arthur said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was thought that the clean mountain air and river waters could heal the terminally ill. Before the discovery of antibiotics, it was the best treatment available, yet few patients here ever healed or survived. It was later repurposed as an asylum for the mentally ill, though…”

They reached a room at the far end of the corridor in the left wing. Arthur hovered his hand over it, hesitating to even push the metallic door open. He looked ashen.

“The experimental surgeries and so-called treatments used here are shrouded in mystery. Many of those known to have been admitted here at St. Agatha’s all but disappeared. But the lingering remnants of one patient, and her story, still remain.”

He pushed open the door, its hinging screeching as they entered the room. Their breaths echoed off the narrow and damp walls. It was completely dark, but the scattering of their flashlights revealed a lone drain in the corner, a broken bed frame, and the walls vandalised with scribblings. Alfred nodded at Arthur, who tucked his flashlight under his arm and dug out the ghost box from his coat pocket.

“Hey, Cassie, look who came back, huh?” Alfred said, loud enough to startle Arthur and Francis. The braver he seemed, the less scared he would feel — he plastered on a grin as he glanced to check the camera was on him. “Did ya miss us?”

Arthur glanced at him nervously. Cassie was mostly nice, though. Sometimes she hissed, or liked to stand right behind people, but Alfred felt — or rather, told himself — that she was only more terrified of them than they were of her.

“We didn’t get a chance to hear your voice last time. Do you wanna come over and talk a little with us? We won’t bite,” Alfred chuckled nervously. Shivering, he motioned for Arthur to turn the ghost box on. “We brought a fancy tool for you, too. You can, like um… play with the radio waves to talk to us.”

Arthur switched it on, filling the room with the overpowering static noise as the ghost box ran through a multitude of channels.

“If you’re here with us, say something. Make a noise. Touch one of us.” Alfred looked to the other two, finding them unsurprisingly displeased. His teeth chattered as he spoke. “Well. Touch me all you like. Yank my hair or something. I won’t mind.”

The room became unbearably cold, even with their coats on. Alfred glanced over to Arthur, who had his arms crossed, drawing his coat tighter around himself. Their shadows were strewn against the walls with the haphazard lights of their flashlights, and Alfred had the feeling Cassie could be hiding amongst them somewhere. He felt a hidden gaze from somewhere, a pinpoint, laser-beam focus of attention on the nape of his neck. But he wouldn’t dare turn around, only kept his eyes on Arthur and his pensive gaze.

He flinched. Something had dripped onto his head. He directed his flashlight to the ceiling, revealing only cracked paint. Completely dry.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked. Alfred glanced back down, a chill running down his spine at the sight. Arthur’s shadow looked strange, almost too large, and nestled within it was something like a core of darkness — the outline of someone else’s shadow hiding within. He reached forward instinctively to pull Arthur away from it.

“What are you doing?” Arthur said, yanking himself away. His shadow was now empty. Alfred somehow had the feeling that it wasn’t Cassie who had just been in the room with them.

“N-nothing,” Alfred swallowed. “I thought I… Never mind.”

“Guys, do you hear that?” Francis asked.

“Hear what?” Arthur asked.

Alfred frowned, thinking he could hear it, too. “Turn it off,” he whispered at Arthur.

The ghost box went silent, and Alfred’s heart pounded in his ears as he listened. It was faint, resembling the sound of something metallic being dragged elsewhere in the building. It grew rougher, louder, and the three of them gazed at each other nervously, frozen still.

“What is that?” Francis asked slowly. Arthur scoffed shakily.

“Probably some half-open window or door being pulled by the wind.”

“Oh, sure,” Alfred chuckled, trying hard to ignore the belly-burning dread in his stomach. “The wind.”

The three of them moved out into the hallway, the scraping noise still distant. Alfred didn’t like it one bit. He dug his walkie-talkie out from his back pocket, hoping Ivan or Yao would tell him it was just a half-open door like Arthur said.

“Ivan? Yao? Do you read me? Over.”

After a moment, a grainy but deep reply — Ivan.

“Yes. Is something wrong? Over.”

“Uh. Well. You guys are both still in the van right?” Alfred asked. Arthur and Francis had stopped up ahead, their barely-there silhouettes waiting for him. Alfred pointed his flashlight at them to earn their winces, reassured they were more than just shadows. “And… It’s just us three in here, right? You can confirm that? Over.”

The reply came back quick and irritated in Yao’s voice: “Yes. We’re still in the van and it’s still the three of you in there. Over.”

“It’s just that.. There’s some strange noises here?”

“What noises?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, motioning for the three of them to keep moving. “Come on, Alfred. It’s likely from downstairs somewhere. A generator or something.”

“Oh, so it’s a generator now —”

A tiny but unmistakable droplet landed on Alfred’s hand. Just one. He put the walkie-talkie away in his back pocket, flinching when another fell on his face. And then another, and another. He kept walking but the droplets seemed to follow. He cast the flashlight across the ceiling again, looking for dark patches.

“Do you guys feel that? I think the ceilings are leaking or something.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

“Droplets. I keep feeling them.”

Arthur and Francis exchanged an unsure look.

“It’s probably leakage from the upstairs rooms,” Arthur said, though he didn’t sound too convinced himself. “This building is more than a century old, Alfred.”

Despite descending the stairs to the lower levels, the steady drips continued, as if the air above Alfred was on the verge of rain.

.

**9:15 PM.**

Silence in Ivan’s presence wasn’t unusual, though usually Yao was more than happy to chatter on. But ever since this trip had started, words were difficult. Half the time Yao couldn’t focus on anything but the painful knots in his stomach, his sleep interrupted by nightmares which would sometimes follow him into the waking world, too. Ivan insisted they were hallucinations, products of Yao’s terrified mind, and that as soon as they got to St. Agatha’s and did their work, they would go away. Yao almost wanted to believe him, had Ivan not made a point of being some degree of drunk or knocked out completely throughout this entire trip. He knew Ivan was more terrified than he would ever admit.

The van was completely dark save for the blue light of their screens, each of them completely focused on the live footage from the cameras, listening and watching for the slightest disturbance. But the static was getting to be too much, and the distance between them, though not far, still not close enough. Yao took his headphones off and touched Ivan’s sleeve.

“Hey.”

Ivan took his headphones off. “What is it?”

Yao paused before asking, feeling awkward for it. But the past few days had been so empty of warmth, as if his Ivan had been replaced by a drunken stranger. “Can I hug you?”

Ivan’s face softened. “Of course.” He turned in his chair and opened his arms for Yao, allowing him to curl up into his chest. Yao buried his face in his jacket, the relief feeling palpable in his body. Ivan didn’t ask him what was wrong, only sat there stroking Yao’s hair like he was a beloved pet to spoil.

“Sorry,” Yao said, his voice muffled against Ivan’s shoulder. He tried to listen for Ivan’s heartbeat, but it was difficult through all the layers of clothing. In bed, it was always a slow and steady thump, but now he wondered if it was racing like his, if the blood in Ivan’s veins were coursing in the same panicked way as Yao’s. “I think I’ve stressed myself into having heart problems already, and I haven’t even hit thirty.”

Ivan chuckled softly, tilting Yao’s face up to look at him fondly. His eyes weren’t hooded by drowsiness, and he didn’t smell of bear or whiskey like he had been for the last few days. He leaned in and placed a soft kiss on the bridge of Yao’s nose. “You’re in perfectly good health, don’t worry.”

“Even taking the ‘hallucinations’ into account?” Yao asked. He instantly regretted it when Ivan’s smile faded.

“The mind fears most what it doesn’t understand,” Ivan said. “We fill in the blanks with our most terrifying nightmares. But once we see the supposed threat for what it really is — for what it _isn’t_ — that’s when fear dissipates.” Ivan’s gaze wavered, unsure as it wandered away from Yao and towards the screens. “It’s all perfectly human.”

Yao furrowed his brows, thinking of all the times Ivan refused to sleep without taking a drink first, of the countless brooding silences and drunken hazes which left Yao out in the cold. And now here they were, back at St. Agatha’s where it had all started. He could never wrap his mind around why Ivan would ever want to return — until this evening, until he saw the look on Ivan’s face as he watched the live footage with interest. It was then that an inkling of understanding began to grow, along with a pit of dread deep in his chest.

“What are they doing?” Ivan muttered, picking up his headphones. Yao followed his gaze, watching a grainy scene of the others gathering around something. They appeared to be talking fervently among each other, prodding at something on a wall. Yao squinted.

“Um. Am I missing something? What are they pointing at?”

Onscreen, Alfred appeared to stagger away, as if startled by something. He disappeared offscreen, followed by Arthur. It was then that Ivan yanked off his headphones and stood from his chair, carefully setting Yao down from his lap.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Yao asked. His throat felt tight when Ivan grabbed the keys from the desk. He grabbed Ivan by the sleeve. “Ivan, come on.”

“I have to go in and stop them before someone gets hurt.”

“Hurt?” Yao scoffed. “Ivan, they’re fine! Alfred probably spooked himself with his overactive imagination.”

“You really think that place is safe?” Ivan asked, looking Yao dead in the eye.

Yao swallowed. “S-Sure.”

“I know you don’t really think that.” Ivan gently pried Yao’s hand off his sleeve. He grabbed his hat and gloves, preparing to open the van doors. “Stay here and keep an eye on the cameras, okay?”

“This is dumb, stop it.” Yao felt like his heart was stuck in his throat, his entire body wrought with nausea. Not this, not again. He could already feel the cold damp sweat of terror on his skin. “We’ve done this before. It’s not going to end well.”

Ivan chuckled, cupping Yao’s face. “Yaochka, you’re too sweet. But nothing will happen,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It’s like I said. Hallucinations. Irrational fears. Last time, I ran. This time I won’t. And I’ll see these terrors for what they really are — nothing at all.”

Yao’s voice came out in a desperate croak: “Then what are you saving them from?”

Ivan leaned in to kiss Yao’s forehead — almost too happily, too easily. “I promise I’ll be back.”

Yao shivered from the piercing chill of the howling winds as the van doors opened and shut, leaving him alone in the dark. Minutes passed by as his chest heaved with panicked breaths, as what-ifs raced through his mind. With one final shaky exhale, he followed after him. He left the safety of the van, barely sparing a glance at the live footage.

.

**9:10 PM (5 MINUTES EARLIER).**

The air smelled foul in the underground hallways, like the murky water of a stagnant pond. Alfred still felt the barely-there drips of water on him, although he could never see any of these droplets on his body or his glasses when he wanted to show them to the others. He stopped talking about it altogether when Arthur and Francis started to look worried, as if Alfred was losing his mind or something. The three of them had investigated most of what there was to see on the ground floor and downstairs, gathering only faint — maybe even imagined — whispers and that strange metallic noise which seemed to have no particular source. The asylum had returned to silence, and they were approaching the room where the brick had flown at them three years ago and set that entire night awry.

“This is where it happened, isn’t it?” Francis asked. “Where you lost him.”

Arthur slowed down to a stop, his brows pinched.

“What’s wrong, Artie?” Alfred asked.

“If I remember correctly, and from what we gathered from the footage, when we split up I had gone down that way,” Arthur said, pointing his flashlight to the right of the room ahead. “You, Alfred, ran in the opposite direction. Neither of us ran across Matthew. Which leaves only the path back upstairs.”

“But there wasn’t any video evidence of that,” Alfred said.

“Not only that, but I was sure the blueprints indicated more floors than this.”

“Oh.” Alfred side-glanced at that room, wary that something else might come flying at them again. He watched Arthur approach the door, his brows furrowed and seemingly unconcerned with whatever might lie ahead.

“And we never really took a good look in there —”

“Okay, but wait —”

Arthur took a deep breath and yanked open the door ahead. The creak of the door hinge echoed throughout the hallway, announcing their location. Alfred’s heart pounding in wait for something to happen, for something to emerge from the shadows and ward them away once more as they edged their way in.

Only this time, nothing happened. It was all strangely quiet. Their hesitant footsteps echoed against the empty floor and walls, and shining his flashlight Alfred noticed that this was more than just a room; it was yet another corridor, and drawing the light across something shiny reflected back at him. A large metal door, with a panel beside it.

Alfred glanced to Francis. “Are you getting this?”

“Was that not there before?” Francis asked.

“I would think we’d have noticed an elevator last time,” Arthur said, approaching it. “James certainly never made any mention of it.”

“But it looks so _new,_ ” Francis said.

A chill crawled down from the top of Alfred’s head. He searched the floor for that familiar taped ‘X’. “Guys, Ivan and I set up in here earlier today. There was no elevator in here. It… wasn’t even a hallway like this. It was just an empty room.”

“Surely you’re mixing it up with some other part of the building,” Arthur said.

“No, Arthur, I know where we are. We took the same path from the stairs. It’s… it’s _changed_.”

Francis and Arthur seemed to ignore him, willfully or not, and inspected the doors up close, which had a small dark gap between them. Alfred had some awful feeling they would fully open up and swallow them whole, or that someone, _something_ , would reach out.

“Guys, please step back, come on.”

“Perhaps this is where Matthew went,” Arthur said, tracing the panel. “You know, a strange thing I noticed about St. Agatha’s is that there are no surgery rooms here. Only patient rooms and offices. No morgues, despite the countless buried outside. Perhaps…” He pressed one of the elevator buttons. The doors shook as a metallic screeching noise startled them all, similar to the noise they heard earlier. They stepped back, watching the gap between the doors flicker with light.

“I mean, where…” Alfred swallowed, pushing his matted hair — wet from cold sweat or the damn droplets, he wasn’t sure — away from his face. “Where is it even getting power from?”

Arthur only glanced over for a moment, brief concern before saying nothing at all. Was Alfred the only one who felt like his chest was going to burst any moment now? They were just stood there in a place that shouldn’t exist, waiting for whoever had taken that first elevator ride down in the first place.

When the elevator finally stopped, there was something partially blocking the light, a shadow that was perfectly still. The doors wouldn’t fully open. Alfred felt watched, intimidated by whatever was standing there mere feet away from him. Francis frowned and peered in through the gap, shining his flashlight through. Arthur joined in. Alfred couldn’t breathe. He turned back towards the direction they had arrived in, only to find a blank wall staring back at him. The door was gone.

“Fuck….” Alfred’s breaths grew fuller, his voice hoarse with muttered curses. Was this it? Was this what had happened to Matthew? Had he been boxed in by concrete underground, with only some unidentifiable horror waiting for him behind the doors up ahead. He ran past the elevator, down the dark hallway that wasn’t meant to be here. Maybe, maybe there was a stairwell up ahead, a way out. Maybe he’d just gotten himself confused and misremembered how they had gotten here.

Arthur’s voice echoed distantly behind him, calling for him to come back. But Alfred didn’t want to stop, not until he outran the shadows behind him, until he crawled his way through whatever crack or gap in the walls to get out of this place forever. Something grabbed his leg and yanked him down hard against the floor, his ribs aching from the impact. His hands shaking violently, he scrambled up and kept running, the light of his flashlight scattering across the endless hallway ahead.

“Alfred, where are you going….?” Arthur called out again from the darkness behind him. Although Alfred’s legs were throbbing, Arthur sounded like he was just as close. And alone. “Please wait for me.”

His breaths heaving, Alfred slowed down, placing his back against a wall. This place looked the same all over. Even the moldy patches and cracked paint seemed to repeat themselves, somehow. He stood there waiting for Arthur, listening for his footsteps. But it was completely silent, save for the sound of droplets, like water flowing through drainage pipes on a rainy day. It was close by. Alfred followed the sounds to the room just up ahead, a tiled room with stalls and sinks. The floor was wet with puddles. Alfred found himself frozen still in front of one the sink mirrors, the scarce light and strong shadows making him look gaunt and pale — almost deranged. It struck a familiar chord within him, an old memory.

“There you are,” Arthur’s voice called out, from behind him, followed by the touch of a hand at his shoulder. In the mirror’s reflection, Arthur was beside him, his brows pinched in concern. “What’s going on with you?”

“I remember…” Alfred started, his voice sounding dry and cracked. “I saw him here.”

“Saw who?”

“Mattie,” Alfred said, his lips cracking into a sad smile. “Somehow, after the brick, I had found my way here. And I saw him standing right where you are. I was sure he was with me. But when I turned around…”

“He was gone, wasn’t he?”

Alfred swallowed, terrified to turn to him. The mirror was clouding up with droplets. “I somehow have the idea that you’re going to disappear, too.”

“I’m not going to disappear, Alfred. Please, turn around.”

“I _can’t_.”

Arthur grabbed him by the shoulders and whirled him around. Even in this miserable lighting, his eyes were such an unusual green, like spring leaves in the sun. “I’m right here, alright? We’re leaving this place together no matter what.”

Their breaths and whispers were so close now, the only sounds in Alfred’s ears. He thought, strangely, that if he moved a single inch, if he so much as flinched, all of this would disappear forever. He was so terrified of ruining it all, of leaning in to press his lips to Arthur’s and possibly losing him for good. The sounds of droplets were now more like streams, sheets of water flowing down the walls, swirling around their feet. The rain above his head was pouring. Not a single drop touched Arthur.

“Listen, Arthur, I —”

A distant voice called out from the hallway: “Hello?”

Before Alfred could say anything more, before he could question the haunting familiarity of that voice, the ground beneath him shook, the tiles beneath his feet splitting open to reveal a pitch-black void. He reached for Arthur, only to fall right through, slipping away like he was nothing. His body landed hard onto the ground, deep beneath St. Agatha’s and the rest of the world, and with a sickening crack everything went dark.


	7. Escape

Ivan had never believed in ghosts. When the devil himself appeared before him three years ago in those cursed woods, his one and only conclusion was that he had lost his mind. He'd grown up in a home of superstition and unwittingly found himself knocking on wood now and then, but firmly believed that anything and everything could be explained in perfectly natural ways. None of the footage or audio they had caught ever convinced him. Spoken words were often over-interpreted rumblings, static, radio stations stumbled on by happenstance. Shadows were tricks of the light, of cars driving by and flashlights held at unfortunate angles. Everything else — that skin-scrawling touch, those burning scratches left on his back by that _thing_ — was delusion.

The icy winds surged and whipped his scarf around his face, as St. Agatha's asylum held her crumbling arms outstretched around him. He felt watched. That feeling of paranoia that alcohol was so good at dulling was now weighing on him in full force. His head throbbed. His fingers felt twitchy, the keys shaking in his grip. A murder of crows burst from a nearby bush as he walked by. He had some strange thought that the howling winds might try to snatch the keys from him this time to draw him back into the woods, yet he refused to dignify that feeling by looking back.

He steeled himself as he approached the steps, overwhelmed by the towering height of the building. He grabbed the chain and padlock on the front doors, betrayed by his trembling hand as he struggled to put the key in. Snow crunched quietly and quickly behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Yao running after him, attempting to put his coat on with one hand while lugging a backpack in the other.

"I thought you weren't leaving the van tonight," Ivan said, eyeing the bag and realising it was his survival kit, a bundle of rope and a torch hanging off the sides. Yao hopped up the steps and ducked under Ivan's arm to place himself between Ivan and the door.

Ivan raised a brow. "That's cute," he said, twisting the key in the padlock and throwing the padlock aside. Yao shoved himself back against the doors, unamused.

"Either you somehow think you're the exception here, or you really don't care if you get hurt," Yao said, his voice brittle.

"This is a bit dramatic."

"You said so yourself! It's not safe in there."

"Only for people like Alfred. They fall prey to these things easily."

"And you won't?"

Ivan chuckled, in an attempt to ease that silence settling between them now. Yao met his gaze in a way he often didn't these past few years, as if he was afraid of what he'd see. Ivan didn't blame him. Something had tainted him that night in the woods.

"Not anymore. Come on, now. Let me through."

Yao sulkily pursed his lips shut, begrudgingly stepping aside to allow Ivan to pull the doors open. "Fine. If you're going down there anyway I'm coming with you. Thought I'd just try my luck first."

The metal hinges screeched and groaned, echoing into the darkness ahead. Ivan switched on his flashlight. The foyer was quiet; no one was waiting here to be let out. There was no response over the walkie-talkie either, just dead static.

"O-Okay…" Yao exhaled shakily, walking behind Ivan as he moved in. "We're just… going in and out, right?"

"Mhm," Ivan hummed, casting light on the hallway floor ahead, which was littered with broken glass and overturned furniture. He wasn't sure how much of that was vandalism after closure. The place had closed officially due to being underfunded and understaffed, but rumours had gone around that many patients had simply had enough. He wouldn't be surprised. "Watch your step here."

Yao grabbed the sleeve of Ivan's coat, lingering close. "I know why you're doing this," he said. "You came back for your honour or something, didn't you?"

Ivan couldn't help but laugh out loud. His voice bounced against the walls. "Honour?"

"Quiet!" Yao hissed, tugging at his sleeve. "And yes! You're trying to prove yourself as brave or whatever. You know, I call it stupidity."

"Ah, maybe it is…" Ivan said before accidentally stepping on glass, its sharp crack followed by a deafening silence.

Yao froze and squeezed Ivan's arm, his voice barely audible. "Did you hear that?"

"Yes, I stepped on glass."

"N-No. Oh my god. I heard something else."

This is foolish, Ivan thought. He sighed irritably and walked on forward, not caring for the darkness, for what he might possibly shine his flashlight on next. He let Yao take his hand for comfort, following in Alfred, Arthur and Francis' footsteps down the hall and to the stairwell. He tried the walkie-talkie again: nothing. Static, and distorted noises apparently, according to Yao — whatever that meant. On the off-chance that any of their phones could pick up a signal, Yao tried calling, too. No such luck.

Just as they were about to head downstairs, Yao stopped. He tugged at Ivan's sleeve. "What if they're back at the van, looking for us?"

"How would they have gotten out?"

"I don't know, there could be another exit."

Ivan hummed. "No, I don't think there is." He did recall a fire escape down the side of the main building, though in all of his trips in here he never once could find a way out to it. Most windows were long since barred or cemented in. There were no emergency exits either. He looked to Yao sympathetically. "You can go back if you want."

Yao swallowed. "By myself? No! Why can't we —"

"Yao. I'm going down there."

"Ivan, come on."

Ivan pulled away and descended down the steps, smiling up at Yao with his flashlight turned up to his face. Yao groaned and quickly hopped down the steps to catch up with him.

"At least watch where you're going," he muttered.

"I've been down here before. Alfred and I set up a camera where the brick flew last time. It's probably where they went," Ivan said, earning a disapproving hum from Yao.

The downstairs area was darker than the ground floor. With no windows, not even moonlight could pass through in here. And without a night-vision camera, two little flashlights were just barely enough to see where they were. Yao's hand felt clammy in Ivan's, squeezing so tight he might break his bones.

"It's just a little further up ahead," Ivan said quietly. He couldn't see Yao's expression well, but he could almost hear Yao's heart pounding in his chest. "We'll take a look there and then investigate the rest of this floor —"

The sound of clattering caused both of them to flinch.

"What the fuck was that?!" Yao hissed. Ivan chuckled nervously.

"Probably a rat?"

Yao shrieked, stumbling into Ivan. "F-Fuck, something touched me."

Ivan sighed. "Nothing touched you —"

"Ivan, I swear, something touched my neck."

"You're freaking yourself out. It was probably a breeze from upstairs or something," Ivan said, wrapping his arm around Yao's shoulder. "I'm here, Yaochka, don't worry."

Yao's teeth chattered as he spoke. "Ugh. Whatever."

They walked into the brick room, Ivan's flashlight catching the black taped 'X' on the floor. He shined the light around, finding only the four blank walls he saw earlier today. "Well… They're not here."

The walkie-talkie in his pocket started to buzz with static. Yao cursed under his breath.

"Why is it doing that? Did you turn it on?"

Ivan furrowed his brows. "I don't think I did…" He pressed down on the button and spoke into it. "Alfred? Arthur? Is someone there?"

He released the button only to have static again — but there was something else, too, like a low rumbling. Yao dug his fingers into Ivan's arm, his breaths growing ragged.

"I-I think we should leave," Yao whispered.

"Why?"

In the half-light, Yao's eyes grew wide with terror. "You don't _hear that_? _"_

"Hear what? The rumbling?"

"N-No, not just that…" Yao tugged at Ivan's arm. "Come on. We should leave."

Just as they turned, the door behind them slammed shut with a bang. Yao screamed. Ivan dropped his flashlight and ran forward, yanking at the door handle. It was ice-cold, and wouldn't budge. They were locked in.

.

_(Listen, Arthur, I —)_

Arthur stood there staring at the empty air in front of him. Alfred had just been there, and in the blink of an eye — gone. Arthur stumbled back, whirling around and shining his shaky flashlight around. Did he black out? Was this some sort of trick?

"Alfred?" His breaths echoed loudly against the tiled walls. "This isn't funny. I-I know you're hiding."

He peeked his head out into the hallway, spotting a flash of light bouncing against the walls in the distance. He laughed dryly.

"I see you there," he said, running after the light, his heart pounding as he approached the corner. He didn't question how Alfred would have made it this far down the hallway without making a sound, or why he would have done such a thing in the first place. He veered left at the corner and nearly crashed into Francis.

"Fuck me," Arthur muttered breathlessly. "I thought you were him."

"What is going on? You both left me completely alone —"

"Alfred's gone," Arthur sighed, pacing around the dark hallway, eyeing all the possible directions he could have run off into. "I don't know where he went."

"What do you mean he's gone?"

"He's just bloody gone! He was right there with me one moment, and the next…" Arthur swallowed, his stomach burning with dread. Is that how Matthew went — just slipped right through thin air like he was nothing? Without saying anything more, he ran back the way he came, scouring the hallways, the twists and turns of windowless concrete, ignoring Francis' unconvincing assurances that Alfred probably went back upstairs and was now wondering where the two of them had gone. Arthur knew in his gut that this wasn't true; he felt sweaty and shaky all over, knowing somehow that Alfred was alone and terrified somewhere, that leaving St. Agatha's would mean losing him forever just like he did Matthew. He felt sick at the thought, stumbling to a stop eventually and wavering in place. Francis took hold of his arm.

"We should head back and get help, okay?" Francis said softly. "He is here somewhere. We'll find him."

Arthur nodded weakly, ready to turn back until a distant, echoed _ding!_ startled him.

"Did you hear that?" Arthur asked. Francis looked wide-eyed, uncertain. Further up ahead, there was an odd glow, almost like daylight. Arthur followed it, turning eventually to find a room uncannily similar to the one they had stumbled across earlier. And sure enough, there was a modern-looking elevator at the centre. Only this time, the doors were wide open.

"Did we go in circles?" Francis asked, hesitant to approach.

"Possibly," Arthur muttered, though he knew they had done anything but. He peered at the elevator buttons inside. There was only one, an arrow pointing down.

"We're not… going down there, are we?"

Arthur glanced up at Francis, who wasn't even holding the camera up in earnest anymore. "Where else could he have gone?"

Francis peered down as he stepped into the elevator with Arthur, furrowing his brows when it shifted slightly with their weight. "And if we get stuck in here?"

Arthur jammed the button with his thumb and caught himself thinking of a prayer. "Let's just hope we don't."

The elevator doors slid shut, the light above them flickering as the machinery came to life and juttered. The ride was shuddery and rough. Arthur grabbed a rail, his knuckles bone-white when the elevator almost felt like it was free-falling, descending without control. He tried not to think about the fact that there was no "up" button, no foreseeable escape from where they were about to go. Bile rose up in his throat regardless.

The elevator jerked hard as it landed, sending Arthur and Francis stumbling. Arthur gripped the side bar, his heartbeat pounding hard in his throat. The doors half opened before the lights flickered off. Somewhere in the distance, there was the faint sound of a man's hoarse laughter.

"Well," Arthur said shakily, having to clear his throat. "Here we are."

They squeezed through the doors and stepped out into an empty hallway, though it was different from any other part of St. Agatha's. It looked strangely untouched — the floors polished clean, and the main desk, though empty, was immaculately organised. A sign pointing left read "Intense Care Ward". In the other direction, the morgue.

"Alfred?" Arthur called out, shining his flashlight down in either direction. Francis tensed, looking over his shoulder.

"The laughing, it came from that way, didn't it?" Francis said, pointing down towards what would be the intense care ward. "Not that I'm keen to follow it…"

"It must have been him." Arthur hesitated, having to force his footsteps into the path ahead. He could almost feel the weight of the entire asylum on him, all of its eyes and ears trained on his every breath and movement. Every office and corridor was windowless, the lights dead. No exit door in sight. The further they walked from the elevator, the more wary he was of the fact that the flashlight batteries were running out by the second. Alfred _had_ to be here, he had to be just around this corner, in this room — only to find dusty silences and empty beds. Sighing, he sat down on one of these beds, his feet starting to ache. Francis lingered awkwardly.

"Arthur? Come on, _chérie_ , there are still other rooms to check."

"Don't call me that," Arthur grimaced weakly. He pulled out his phone. It was just past midnight, no connection whatsoever and his battery was dying. Somehow it felt like he'd been looking for Alfred for a lot longer. "We should have brought camping equipment. This place is a bloody maze."

"We should get Ivan and Yao to help."

"Alfred had the walkie talkie. Who knows, maybe he _has_ already left this place." Arthur rested his face tiredly in his hands. His chest was starting to ache at the mere possibility of leaving and not finding Alfred there at the van. Would Alfred feel the same way if the roles were reversed? Somehow, he doubted it. He couldn't imagine Alfred being a pathetic sap. Scared as he'd be down here, he'd psych himself into thinking he was some sort of Indiana Jones, searching for thrills and treasures. Not scrambling for the one person he couldn't make a single day without thinking about them.

Francis pat his head, presumably in sympathy, though it only made Arthur feel even more sorry for himself. He groaned, glancing around the scarcely-lit room through the web of his fingers. Although this building seemed large enough to house an entire town within it, the rooms were claustrophobically tiny. His knees could almost touch the bed opposite of him. The door barely had enough space to open. He roamed his flashlight around, able to even illuminate the hallway outside partly. Just as he did this, a moving figure blocked his light — two pairs of bare feet and the hems of hospital gowns running past the room. Arthur's heart lurched, feeling as though it would hop out of his throat. He stood up and startled Francis.

"Did you see that?"

"See what?"

Arthur ran out into the hallway, only just spotting the back of a gown turning into a room up ahead. "Alfred!"

He followed after them, ignoring Francis' calls for him to slow down. He grabbed the door handle of the room and yanked it open — only to find no one there. Panting, he stood there dumbfounded, not sure there was any place someone could have hidden in. It was a surgery room. An operating table in the middle, with restraints handing off the edges. A small cabinet and tray of rusty tools on the side. Nothing and no one else.

"There's nothing here." He shivered, wanting to collapse onto the floor. Francis touched his shoulder. "I was sure I saw someone. I was sure I'd —"

"We can't keep looking forever, Arthur."

Arthur shirked away from him. "Don't you start." Barely able to keep from giving into his tired legs, he leaned against the cabinet and stared at the blank wall ahead. His head ached. His throat felt like it was made of paper. But he didn't care — he'd stay down here for as long as it took to find Alfred.

.

Alfred grimaced as something warm dripped onto him. He wiped away at his face, squinting his eyes open to find himself in near-darkness. He was lying in a bed that, with a sinking realisation, he knew wasn't his. Just above the bed was a barred window, the scarce moonlight just enough for him to make out a dark patch on the ceiling above his head. It dripped again, and as he wiped his face he noticed that his fingers were wet with something dark and viscous. His lips tasted metallic.

He scrambled off the bed, the drips now staining the rumpled sheets. His pulse started fluttering, his hands shaky as he felt around for a door. His entire body ached, as if bruised to the bone. His left arm felt strangely numb, too, resistant to movement as if it was asleep. He bumped into a wall, cursing under his breath.

"Who's there?" a tiny voice asked. Alfred yelped and turned around. In the opposite corner of this small room, there was another bed. He could barely see anyone there, until a figure rose from the sheets and sat up. Locks of gold hair caught the faint light from the window.

"Matt? Is that you?"

The figure stilled for a moment. Alfred approached, his eyes adjusting to the low light and wondering if this was some sort of dream. The man across from him was skinny, almost tiny in comparison to the bed. He was sickly pale, and his eyes were overshadowed by dark circles. But the eyes were unmistakably Matt's — a gentle blue that was almost violet with the right kind of lighting. Alfred had always kind of envied them, but seeing their dying light now almost broke him.

"We've been looking for you," Alfred said, his voice cracking. He reached over to hug him, only for Matt to pull away and scramble closer to the wall next to his bed. "For years now."

"No one is looking for me," Matt said, averting his eyes to his bare feet. "I'm here until I get better."

"Get better from what?" Alfred crouched to the floor to try and get into Matt's field of vision. "Mattie, don't you recognise me?"

Matt glanced up at him briefly, distrustfully. "You're a delusion."

"I'm your friend Alfred." He grabbed Matt by the shoulder, shaking him gently. "I'm real."

Matt's attention caught onto Alfred's sleeve. He shakily pulled the sleeve up, revealing what looked like a patient bracelet. Alfred pulled away, reading his own name, date of birth, and patient number on his wrist. It was bound so tightly there was barely room to hook a finger through. It wouldn't tear either.

"I guess you are real," Matt said quietly.

"What the fuck," Alfred muttered, his breaths feeling thin as he attempted to wriggle his hand out of the bracelet. It was no use. The material was hard like plastic.

"You shouldn't touch it."

Alfred stood up, circling the room and trying the door handle. Locked. He whirled around to look at Matt. He was lying back down on his bed, eyes wide open and staring vacantly at the ceiling. Alfred's bed was now soaked through with a large puddle of red. His left arm tingled, still hanging uselessly by his side.

"How can you just lie there?"

Matt sighed. "In three years, I've tried everything. What else is there left to do?"

Alfred scoffed. He stood underneath the window and hopped up to grab onto one of the bars with his right arm. Wincing, he barely pulled himself up to peek through. The full moon was high up in the sky, but the horizon was just one endless forest — didn't he fall through from the basement? He began yelling for help for as long as his arm could hold him up there, before being yanked down by Matt.

"What do you think you're doing?" Matt hissed.

"Dude, I'm trying to get us out of here."

"I don't think you get it," Matt said, his voice hoarse as if he hadn't had to use this volume for a long time. "The only way out of here is to get better. And that means not yelling. Or trying to escape. Or acting like we're not supposed to be here. Because we are. Just look at you."

Alfred scoffed. "Look at _me_?"

"You're in the right clothes, aren't you? You're wearing the bracelet. And let's not kid ourselves; everyone else thought you were kooky before you ended up here. We both were. It was about time you woke up."

Alfred braved a glance down at his clothes, the bracelet, his overgrown fingernails and dirty feet. He knew in his mind Matt was wrong… but what if he wasn't? What if everything he thought was evidence of life after death was really just proof of his own insanity? What if the past three years had been just some lone fantasy while he wasted away in that bed? And yet, Arthur — he _had_ to be real. His imagination couldn't have possibly matched up to the reality of seeing him again, of hearing him laugh and suffering his scathing remarks and revelling in his guarded tenderness. Moments like those couldn't have been made up.

Alfred stepped back from Matt. "Look. I don't know what's going on here, or what's gotten into you, but there's no way any of this is real. The asylum is just fucking with us."

Matt didn't say anything for a moment, but he was visibly shaking. "You don't know the half of what this place does to you."

They both flinched when three loud bangs sounded at the door. Matt gasped and hopped back into his bed, his eyes trained on the gap between the door and the floor. The outside hallway was flickering with light, revealing a large shadow hovering outside. The door clicked, and the shadow left.

Matt sighed. "It's probably our food. The door should open."

Alfred carefully opened the door, peering outside as if he might see someone there. Only the hallway was empty. A single tray lay on the ground — two mouldy pieces of bread, water, and two little cups of multi-coloured pills. Alfred glanced down either side of the hallway, listening for footsteps. Just as he thought to step out, Matt grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him back in.

"You'd be stupid to even try. Trust me," Matt said, picking up the tray and shutting the door. It clicked again. Locked. He handed Alfred the pills. "Take them."

"What for?"

Alfred watched Matt take his bread, tearing out the mouldy parts to leave behind an even smaller morsel. He chewed it slowly, watching Alfred. After he swallowed, he sipped the water carefully.

"Sleep is the only real escape here," Matt said. He poured out the pills into his bony hand. Alfred grabbed his wrist to stop him. Matt glanced up at him tiredly. "I have to take them."

"No, you don't."

"I get unwell if I don't. I don't sleep at all —"

Alfred knocked the pills out of his hands. They scattered across the floor in the near-darkness. Matt darted his eyes to Alfred's pills, but before he could grab them Alfred chucked them through the barred window. Matt gasped.

"God, Al, you really had to just…" Matt crouched to the floor, feeling around for the scattered pills. He cursed under his breath, holding his head in his hands. "Why did you do that? Now… Now they'll…"

"Now they'll what?"

Three loud bangs sounded on the door once again. Matt choked back a sob and scrambled up to stand with his back against the wall.

"T-They're just back for the tray, right?" Alfred asked. Matt said nothing, his breaths ragged and panicked. There were two shadows outside the door now, and that familiar click of the lock giving way. Alfred grabbed Matt by the arm and led him to the space next to the door, pushing their backs against the wall as the door creaked open. The flickering hallway light flooded into the centre of the room like a spotlight, outlining the silhouette of two large figures. Alfred could almost feel Matt's heart pounding through his skinny arm. His own chest felt shaky from the shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The shadows moved closer, until they stood immovably in the centre of the room.

"Follow me," Alfred whispered almost inaudibly. Matt shook his head violently but still followed as they sneaked behind the figures and out into the hallway. The door slammed and the hallway lights went out, leaving them running in complete darkness. Alfred tugged at Matt to keep up, spurred by the indecipherable and twisted mumbling emanating from behind, growing louder by the second.

Upon reaching a double door at the end of the hallway, they frantically pushed their way in and scrambled for somewhere to hide. Cold, clinical lights blinded them. But there were no cupboards, no curtains or beds to hide in. Just an operating table, and a tray of bloody tools. Nausea bubbled up Alfred's throat when he heard a whirring sound in the distance. They backed up against the wall and realised the doors were opening on them. There was nowhere left to go.

.

Yao yanked at the door handle and shook it until he was sure he might break it. His gasped breaths were hoarse in his throat, heavy and thick with panic. He could hear claws scuttling across the floor, and went dizzy as he realised there was no way out. A heavy hand clasped his shoulder and he flinched.

"Yao, it's me," Ivan whispered, prying Yao's hands away from the door. "Calm down."

Yao struggled in his grip, not sure how Ivan could be so calm himself. He glanced behind them, and with skin-crawling horror saw that there were now a multitude of yellow eyes watching, burning him with their gaze. They were so close, and so hungry —

" _Yao,_ " Ivan said, his hands holding Yao's face firmly. "Listen to me."

"H-How can you not see them?"

"I have a hypothesis."

"A hypothesis?! Now?" Yao clawed against Ivan's hold, hearing the scratch of talons against the concrete floor, the smell of something burning rising in the air. One of their flashlights cast a spotlight against one of the blank walls, cut by the silhouettes of teeth and claws approaching.

"My hypothesis, Yaochka _,_ is that we'll be fine. That nothing will happen to us." The room was too dark to see anything but those glowering eyes in his peripheral vision, yet somehow Ivan's voice was measured and sure of itself. "That these ghosts and demons and creatures can only hold as much power as we give them."

"But they're right there," Yao spluttered. "They're real. I see them."

"What is it you see, exactly?"

"Ivan, you can't make me _rationalise_ what's happening right now," Yao said, his body shaking uncontrollably. What felt like a long fingernail gently scratched down the length of Yao's arm, as if to test him. He cried out and flinched away, only to be caught in Ivan's hold.

"There is nothing there," Ivan said firmly, infuriatingly calmly. He drew Yao into his chest and held him tightly. "Listen to me and close your eyes."

"No."

"Yes. Just…. Imagine something like a white light around you."

Yao was breathing hard against Ivan's jacket, watching as those eyes and shadows crawled in closer to them. This was crazy. This was stupid. The room was ice-cold but his palms were clammy with sweat. He flinched when something touched his hair, only to realise it was Ivan brushing it aside from his face.

"Imagine that this light covers you from head to toe, and that nothing can go through it," Ivan continued, as a dark and horned figure rose from the ground behind them. Yao clutched at Ivan, feeling its piercing red-eyed gaze. "That anything that might want to hurt you disappears at merely touching it."

Yao couldn't look, yet he couldn't shut his eyes either. He choked back a cry in the back of his throat, watching the ground at their feet, shakily lit by the flashlight still in his hand. Only something strange was happening now — around them appeared to be a ring where the shadows couldn't reach, some invisible barrier they were unwilling to cross.

Ivan chuckled lowly, stumbling back and sending the shadows flinching away as if burnt by fire. "It's working, _da_?"

Nothing could come out from Yao's mouth — he only watched dumbfounded as the shadows scattered and the creatures in the darkness scuttled away. One trembled breath after the other, the whispers and snarls grew quieter, more distant. Mid-caress he realised that this was the first time in a long while that he had Ivan's attention on him like this, that wasn't dulled by alcohol or distracted by some inner demon of Ivan's. It was just the two of them here, and Yao found himself shivering in a good way when Ivan stroked the top of his head. The horned figure was the last to disappear, simply stepping back into the darkness. The room around them was suddenly quiet.

"They're gone, aren't they?" Ivan asked softly. Yao nodded into his shoulder.

"You made them go away," Yao said, muffled against Ivan's coat.

Ivan chuckled and let go of him. "I was right, wasn't I?"

Yao furrowed his brows, watching Ivan nonchalantly pick up the torch from the ground. "There was something about you that they didn't want to touch."

"Good. You see, thinking logically about this helps."

"N-No, I don't think that's…"

"This looks a bit strange," Ivan said, shining his flashlight over one of the walls. Yao shifted uneasily, wanting more than anything to just leave before anything like this happened again.

"What's strange about it?"

"The paint. It's much lighter." Ivan ran his hand over the wall and knocked on it. The sound was hollow. Yao felt shaky all over, already having a sense of what sort of idea was running through his head. Ivan turned to him, smiling gently, completely unaffected by this place, by what had just happened moments ago. "We'll need a hammer."

.

The doors burst open on them, setting Alfred's already pounding heart into a frenzy. He couldn't look. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to completely block out the blinding fluorescent lights. Matt was squeezed up against his side, shaking violently; he probably knew what would happen to them, likely had the scars to prove it. Alfred tried not to think about that whirring sound, about the knives and scalpels on that table. He tried not to think of the stories Arthur told him long ago about what happened to patients here when they wouldn't comply. He tried pretending he was elsewhere entirely, that this was only a nightmare and he needed only to be jerked awake in his own bed at home. He could even hear Arthur's voice, just barely, just there in front of him.

" _There's nothing here."_

Alfred shivered, not because it was cold but because there was a sudden warmth around him. He peeked his eyes open only to find the room dark and empty. Yet the air was different — he reached out, drawn to this new presence, and his fingertips brushed against something. It felt electric on his skin, a sharp spark of familiarity. There was an audible gasp in the room, and it came from neither Alfred nor Matt.

Matt grabbed his arm, his voice hushed. "Al, stop it."

"There's someone there."

"You'll give us away."

Alfred reached out further, gripping onto a hand. Without warning it yanked him up, pulling Matt along with him as he stumbled forward in the darkness and into a warm embrace. The numbness in Alfred's left arm was now seized in pain, but it was deafened by a familiar voice.

"Alfred…?"

He burst into relieved laughter, hugging Arthur more tightly in his arms. "Dude, I missed you so much." He peeked his eyes open, briefly blinded by the flashlight shining on him. Francis was looking on dumbfounded. "You, too, man. Not as much if I gotta be honest, but still."

A half-smile cracked onto Francis' lips. "You…" His eyes flickered to Matt. "You both just…"

"Let's not look a gift horse in the mouth, shall we?" Arthur said, his voice a little thick with what could have been tears. He pulled back to look at Alfred and Matt, his face in an earnest beaming smile that Alfred hadn't seen before. His green eyes flickered to Alfred's left arm, his brows pinching. "What happened to you —"

A distant whirring sound echoed from somewhere within the building. Alfred's stomach lurched with the realisation that they were not the only two to cross over whatever strange boundary they'd just broken through.

"What is that?" Francis asked.

"We need to leave," Matt said, his voice shaky. "Now."

They hurried out into the hallway, the air dustier than Alfred remembered. They turned a corner — towards where, no one seemed to be sure. Alfred glanced back, thinking he could hear footsteps behind them. Arthur tugged him along, and for a moment Alfred was sure his flashlight briefly illuminated the shadow of man watching them.

"Alfred, come on."

He swallowed. "Why isn't he running after us?"

"Who —?" Arthur shook his head and gestured for Arthur to keep up. "Never mind. We need to get back to the elevator."

Alfred reluctantly followed, an uneasy feeling sitting on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He felt as though everything in the asylum had eyes, watching and waiting for the right moment. They reached an elevator, the doors half-open. They each squeezed in there, leaving little space within the elevator. Arthur groaned.

"Francis… there's only a down button. The power isn't even on."

"There has to be an emergency panel somewhere."

"Guys," Matt exhaled, his gaze trained on that gap in the doors. "We need to be moving."

The sound of something crumbling sent Alfred's gaze up to the elevator ceiling: the emergency escape. "What about that up there?"

Francis darted his gaze up. "Okay. We can work with that. Alfred, you mind lifting me up?"

Before Alfred could say anything, Arthur interrupted: "I'll do it," he said, glancing at Alfred's left arm. He hoisted Francis up onto his shoulders, allowing him to push the panel open. Pieces of crumbled wall fell through.

"Hello?" a voice called out, echoed and distant but distinctly from above them — Yao. "Who's there?"

"It's us!" Francis yelled, grabbing a flashlight from Arthur and waving it into the elevator shaft. "Everyone's here."

"How did you guys end up down there? We had to break through a wall —"

"We need some help getting out of here now," Arthur snapped. "Some rope? Tied bedsheets? I'm getting tired of carrying Francis around."

"I'm not that heavy."

Matt paced around uneasily in the elevator with his arms crossed, peeking now and then through the door gap. Alfred breathed in and out slowly, the pain in his left arm no longer just a dull ache. His sleeve felt stuck to his skin, dark with blood, and something felt awfully wrong about the way the pain shot straight through to the bone every time he moved. After a few moments a rope lowered into the elevator shaft, with a large knot at the end.

"Matthew, you first," Francis said. Matt nodded and let himself be hoisted up. He grabbed onto the rope and climbed his way up, his breaths laboured and echoing out through the shaft. Francis went after him, and Arthur was ready to hoist Alfred up next.

"I don't think I can do it," Alfred said hoarsely. Arthur pursed his lips.

"You're sure?"

Alfred nodded, barely able to string any words together let alone breathe evenly. Arthur muttered a curse under his breath.

"Okay. We'll figure something out."

"What's wrong?" Francis called from the top of the elevator shaft.

"Hey, Artie," Alfred said, his syllables seemingly blurring together. The look on Arthur's face was priceless — though maybe a little heart-breaking, too. His eyes were so wide, so scared. What for? "You go on ahead. I'm not feeling so hot. Maybe I could just lie down for a bit?"

"I'm not leaving you here," Arthur said softly.

Thundering footsteps sounded in the hallway outside — not so distant, chillingly close. There were many, and Alfred knew they were here to take him away once more, to strap him into that bed and numb him until he ate and slept without question. But he was in too much pain to even feel terrified at the notion — going to sleep sounded like relief.

Arthur grabbed him by the wrist and led him out of the elevator. "We're finding another way out of here."

Alfred hummed, the dusty air around his feet now more like a blanket of fog. Running hurt. Clutching his left arm to keep it from moving hurt, too. But Arthur was so desperate for him to keep up, to keep moving so the men with the thundering footsteps wouldn't catch him. Now and then, the hallway lights flickered, illuminating St. Agatha's residents lying strapped in their beds, hollow-eyed in their wheelchairs, motionless beneath yellowed tarps. A pale nurse, her eyes dark empty sockets, reached out for him from her desk, her nails just barely scratching him. The hallway erupted in howls and screams, and just when Alfred couldn't take it, when he thought he'd rather die than keeping running in this hellish maze forever, Arthur pulled him into a janitor's closet.

"Shh… Quiet." Arthur clumsily placed his hand over Alfred's mouth, covering his panting breaths. "Through your nose. That's it."

Alfred let his legs give in and collapsed slowly to the floor. His vision grew grainy and faint, heart pounding in his ears. Arthur knelt down next to him, sitting there completely still while they waited for the footsteps to walk past them. The screams outside eventually subsided, leaving them in silence.

"How's your arm?" Arthur whispered.

Alfred groaned. "I don't want to think about it."

"Let me see."

Alfred struggled to lift his injured arm, instead letting Arthur gingerly pick it up and roll the sleeve up. He winced, gritting his teeth and turning his head away. Arthur exhaled shakily.

"This doesn't look good, Alfred."

"It's broken, isn't it?" Alfred said, feeling a little faint. "Put the sleeve back down, I can't look at it."

"Alright." Arthur carefully rolled his sleeve back down. His hand touched against Alfred's forehead, stroking lightly. "We'll get you out of here, don't worry."

Alfred couldn't help but laugh weakly, not sure why his eyes were getting watery. "I-I'm not worrying."

"You're an awful liar."

Alfred braved a glance at Arthur, even though only the smallest sliver of light made its way from beneath the closet door. His face was so close, the tenderness of that touch so much more raw and open than Arthur had ever been with him. It was almost too much for Alfred, leaving him struggling to keep any facade of bravery.

The question tumbled out of his lips without hesitation. "Kiss me?"

Arthur smirked — a smile that under any other circumstances Alfred might have found patronising. In this room, in this hour, it was comforting, and the press of Arthur's chapped lips against his exhilarating. Alfred could barely breath, wanting to suffocate in this moment, in how gently Arthur's fingers cradled his face, how desperately Arthur nuzzled into his throat afterwards.

"Please tell me you'll remember this," Alfred said, his voice wobbly. "That we won't fight and pretend it didn't happen."

"How could I forget?"

"You acted like it the first time."

"It was hardly good acting." Arthur paused, lifting his face from Alfred's throat. "You really didn't have a clue as to why I was out by the woods for half an hour?"

A mischievous half-smile tugged at Alfred's lips. "I thought we established you were jacking it."

"You idiot, I was holding in tears every time I looked at you. I thought you didn't want me. Spending all those hours on the road with you was insufferable. You really didn't notice?"

"Dude, I thought you hated _me_. I fucked up."

"Well. You sort of did. Not in the way you thought, though."

Alfred groaned. "So you're telling me I could have asked you out in our final year?"

"Arguably as early as second year."

"Man. What were we even doing?"

Arthur chuckled softly, shrugging and resting his head onto Alfred's shoulder. They stayed like that for those few precious moments, waiting for some false assurance that it would be finally safe to leave. But the asylum outside of the closet doors remained just as quiet, the lights flickering just the same. After making a makeshift sling for Alfred's arm using Arthur's jacket, they ventured out into the maze-like hallways.

"I know there is a way to a staircase in here somewhere," Arthur said, keeping his voice low and barely audible. "There's no way the elevator is the only route down here."

Alfred stuck close to Arthur, dread steadily building up in the pit of his stomach as the air grew hazy with fog. With every flicker of the lights he thought he could hear the sound of a phone ringing, or wheels rolling across the floor, muttered conversations and the buzz of medical equipment. He tightened his grip on Arthur's hand, terrified to glance down and see that the patient bracelet was back on. He was tip-toeing on the line between this world and the next, every step forward a gamble on his life as he knew it. A patient in a hospital gown crossed in front of them in the flickering darkness, but Arthur was unfazed, peering into rooms as if there weren't eyes watching from their corners.

"Alfred, I think this is it."

Arthur pushed against a door at the end of the hallway, blinding light spilling through the gap. Through the door was a spiral staircase, concrete steps and white walls lit by some inexplicable reflection of light from somewhere. Alfred wasn't sure if his eyes were playing with him again, stumbling as Arthur tugged his right arm. Each step was more laborious than the last, heavy as the air slowly choking Alfred's lungs. He could barely see his feet beneath the fog, could barely even see where his and Arthur's hands met. He could feel something clawing at his feet, pulling him back. He half-collapsed on one knee.

"I can't…" Alfred started, too breathless to finish his sentence.

"We're so close," Arthur said, helping him up. "Stay with me. Come on."

Alfred groaned, his right arm hoisted over Arthur's shoulders as he was partly carried along to each excruciating step. His eyelids felt heavy, closing of their own accord only to jerk back open. He could no longer even feel the pain in his arm — just that pull, that gentle tug back into darkness.

Ice-cold winds whipped around his face. He opened his eyes, finding himself dragged out onto what must have been the roof of St. Agatha's. The dark forest around them expanded far into the horizon, meeting seamlessly with the pitch-black sky.

Alfred could barely get his mouth to form the words. "I've never seen this many stars…"

A warm hand cupped around his face. "Alfred? You have to try your best to stay awake… Alfred!"

He collapsed onto the snow-covered roof, taking one last glimpse of the splash of stars hanging above his head before passing out.


	8. Epilogue

**LONDON. 10 MONTHS LATER.**

Alfred spent probably far too long trying to get the gift wrapping right. His efforts still looked a bit clumsy, the corners not quite symmetrical, the paper itself a garish green, and the message tag stuck on the wrong side. He held it shakily in his one hand, the camera held up in the other. Initially, he wanted to record Arthur’s reaction to it, but as he stood in his living room full of more strangers than friends, Alfred was starting to feel a bit nervous. Who even were these people? Co-workers probably. Maybe Arthur’s new writer friends. Some of them threw curious glances his way, and for the first time in his life the spotlight didn’t feel so exhilarating.

He retreated to the corner of the living room, by a mistletoe-covered window. He narrowed his eyes at it. It wasn’t the kind of thing Arthur would put up. Unless —

“Alfred!”

He turned around, finding the likely culprit. Francis was coming his way, dressed in a dark glitter-covered button-up shirt and golden hair flouncing around his face.

“Fran, my man! How’s it going?”

Francis winced, probably at the nickname. “Good, good…” He glanced up with a sly smile. “I see you’ve found the mistletoe I put up… You waiting for anyone in particular?”

Alfred hesitated to answer, a hot flush making its slow encroach across his face. “N-No? I mean. Um. Anyway, say hi to the camera.”

Francis shifted his gaze to the camera, absent-mindedly fixing his open shirt collar. “Oh, you’re recording?”

“Yeah, for the new vlog! Anything you wanna say to the world?”

Francis hummed in thought for a moment, chuckling to himself. “I’m not sure it’s family-friendly…”

“Oh my god, dude. Are you drunk?”

Francis pinched his index finger and thumb together. He poked playfully at Alfred’s arm, the gift tucked away. “What’s this, hm? For Arthur, right?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Have you seen him?”

“He was in the kitchen busy with that Christmas pudding or something, wasn’t he?”

“Right.”

“Don’t be nervous. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“Judging by how frazzled you looked, I know it’s something thoughtful.” Francis gestured for him to leave. “Now go after him! You’re taking up a valuable spot there.” He smiled and Alfred groaned.

“‘Kay, dude. I’m going.”

Alfred made his way to the kitchen, heart pounding hard in his chest. His sweater was way too warm, itching on his skin when he stepped into the heavy air of the kitchen which permeated with the smell of a turkey roasting in the oven. The kitchen counters and stove-top were in disarray, cluttered with bowls and ingredients, half-finished dishes covered in tin-foil, and a sad sunken bowl of something left out to go cold. Ivan and Yao were giggling amongst themselves at the kitchen table, up in each other’s faces with Yao sitting in Ivan’s lap.

“Kiss cam!” Alfred said, zooming his camera in. “Just kidding, don’t actually — okay, guys, we get it! Where’s Arthur?”

Ivan glanced at him, his lips curved in what must have been a smile. Alfred wouldn’t know — he’d never seen such a genuine thing on that guy’s face before. But something was definitely different about him. Not exactly lighter, not exactly burdened, either. Different. His shadow looked strange, almost a little too big. But Alfred had to be seeing things.

“He gave us watch-duty for the turkey and potatoes,” Ivan said, adjusting his rumpled scarf.

“He gave _me_ watch-duty,” Yao interrupted. 

“Watch duty?” Alfred asked.

“He’s gone to get a new dessert,” Yao said, gesturing to the abandoned mixture bowl. His accent was a little softer now, the barest hints of British coming through. He and Ivan were really settled in London now, ever since Yao was accepted onto a PhD programme in International Relations. Alfred still had no idea what Ivan did for a living, and would only get a vague answer that he did _some_ sort of freelance work involving lots of travel. 

“I told him the weird pudding isn’t necessary,” Yao went on. “I could make something better. But he really wanted to do the whole British thing. Flames are involved, apparently.”

“And alcohol,” Ivan added.

“Ah, figures…” Alfred sighed. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

Yao shrugged. “He left maybe about ten minutes ago. But who knows. It’s Christmas Eve, it’s probably chaos out there. I told him there was no way he’d find one now, but he didn’t listen.” Yao paused, his eyes darting curiously to the gift in Alfred’s hand. “What’s that —”

“I’m gonna go get some fresh air,” Alfred said quickly, backing up towards the back door. “It’s crazy hot in here, so uh… Later, bye!”

He hurried out into the small fenced-in garden, relieved to be out of line of fire of Yao’s curiosity. He wasn’t sure how he’d explain the gift to him, let alone to Arthur himself. His stomach ached in nervousness at the very idea. He tried to ease it by focusing on the cold night air, which held the hint of something unusually sweet, like burnt sugar, possibly from Arthur’s cooking efforts. He pointed the camera up, hoping for a clear sky and finding with delight that even in London he was able to capture the wisp of a constellation.

He’d taken lately to amateur astronomy, initially spurred on by the idea of capturing UFO evidence of his own. But something about the stars gave him comfort, rattled that now-distant memory of passing out on St. Agatha’s roof, and finding himself fussed over by Arthur in the van when he woke up. He had been in the most excruciating pain he’d ever felt, so exhausted and achey from running that he wanted to fall into a coma and stay asleep for twenty years. It was Arthur’s presence next to him, those gentle but worried words tumbling out of his cute mouth, that kept Alfred coasting on wakefulness until they reached the hospital.

Alfred unwittingly found himself smiling, scanning the sky for more stars — until he bumped into something and found himself choking on a billow of sickly sweet smoke.

“Dude, watch i—” Alfred stopped mid-sentence at the sight of James. For a moment he didn’t recognise him; he’d cut his hair short, albeit still leaving a good amount of stubble to frame his perpetually grumpy face. But he still wore the same red-chequered shirt and ripped jeans, holding what must have been a vape pen at his mouth. Without his sunglasses on, James’ face betrayed mild amusement.

“Guess I should have expected this,” James said. “Your arm better?”

“My arm? Yeah, of course.” Alfred chuckled. “Dude. You came all the way over here just to visit us?”

James shrugged, turning his face away to blow out smoke, and probably to hide his smile, too. He gestured to the camera. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for ghosts here.”

“Nah, just filming everyday stuff now for my vlog channel. Anything you wanna say to my two-thousand subscribers?”

James awkwardly waved at the camera. “Um. Don’t drink tap water, people. Avoid fluoride, and those new fancy internet towers —”

“Woah, no conspiracy stuff, man. Youtube gets weird about that.”

“Oh.” James frowned. “Then, um. Follow… your dreams or whatever. Ain’t nothing to it but to do it.”

“Catchy.”

“Thanks.” James sighed, averting his eyes to the ground. “Look, Alfred. I’ve been meaning to apologise —”

Alfred switched off his camera. “Hey, it’s okay, you really don’t have to —”

“I should never have let anyone step foot into that place to begin with. Least of all you.”

“Look. It’s like you said then. Nothing would have stopped me.”

“I think about it a lot,” James continued, chewing his lip. “What it might have been like if I’d just said no, or nothing at all. If I’d just given up on trying to prove anything. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and Matthew —”

Alfred swallowed. “No one could have known it’d go down like that.”

“Maybe.” James lingered, as if thinking to say something more. He shook his head and pat Alfred hard on the shoulder. “Anyway. He’s over there with the deck chairs if you want to talk to him. He could use some cheering up. I’m no good at that kind of thing.”

“Alright. See you later.”

James nodded, going back inside. Alfred made his way to the far corner of the garden, carefully stepping over a flower bed even though it was only frozen soil and wilted stems. Matt was lying back on one of the plastic deck chairs, just like he was in St. Agatha’s — immobile and eyes glazed over like he was hollowed out. Approaching him made Alfred feel weird, an uneasy palpitation in his chest, somehow expecting to look down and find his wrist shackled in that patient bracelet once more.

“Hey, Matt,” Alfred said, taking his seat on the deck chair next to him. Matt startled and sat up. He looked tired, had been ever since they left St. Agatha’s. But there was a glimmer of relief, too, a small sigh when he saw Alfred there.

“Hey. Sorry. I, uh. It was a bit too much in there.”

Alfred chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t even recognise half the people here tonight.”

“It’s not just that.” Matt hesitated, furrowing his brows and leaning back onto the deck chair again. He zipped his coat up and fiddled with the zipper. “I don’t know. Feels weird to be celebrating. It’s been almost a year and I can’t even manage feeling ‘normal’.”

“Dude, you spent three years in that hell hole. I was there for like, a couple of hours and it fucked me up.”

Silence fell between then, and for a moment Alfred internally panicked about doing the exact opposite of cheering Matt up. He opened his mouth to change the subject, only for Matt to turn over to his side to face Alfred.

“What do you think it was?” Matt asked softly, like someone, or something, might hear. “What happened back there?”

Alfred exhaled slowly. “Honestly? I don’t know, Mattie.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, I don’t think I really _want_ to know. Maybe we picked up on something, on someone else’s life. Or maybe we both just went a little off the rails in there. Or maybe it’s something even crazier than that. I don’t intend on ever finding out.”

“Probably for the best.” Matt pursed his lips, the corners of his mouth tugging down as if he was on the brink of tears. “I spent all those years learning not to trust my own mind, you know? I still do it. I have nightmares of waking up in that hospital bed again. Even now.” He glanced up at Alfred. “I keep thinking I’ll blink and all of this will be gone. I have to remind myself this is all real. Taking moments to feel things around me. Grounding techniques or whatever.”

“Your therapist tell you about that?”

“Yeah,” Matt chuckled, and the sound took Alfred straight back to their university days in a whirlwind of nostalgia for all-nighters at the library and their early amateurish investigations of local urban legends. It stitched something up in Alfred, too, knowing that piece by piece Matt was coming back to them. Alfred leaned back on the deck chair, joining Matt in staring up at the stars in a wordless but comfortable silence. When he spotted the shadow of someone through the kitchen window, he went over to see who it was. Ivan and Yao were gone, and the turkey and potatoes were out on the stove top. At the counter, Arthur was unpacking a shopping bag. Alfred turned his camera on and walked back into the kitchen.

Arthur turned to glance at him, that one look setting Alfred’s gut into knots again. “Oh. There you are.”

He swallowed down his nervousness. “Did you find that Christmas pudding?”

Arthur sighed, his attention back on unpacking the groceries. “I did. Store bought will do, I guess.”

Alfred approached him, unable to help the anticipatory grin on his face. Arthur hadn’t even noticed the camera, let alone the gift. He leaned over Arthur’s shoulder and touched his nose against Arthur’s cheek.

“What are you poking me for?” Arthur said, smiling and turning around. His gaze darted down to the gift in Alfred’s hand. He frowned and tilted his head. “Alfred… That better not be an ouija board —”

“It’s not an ouija board, relax! Just open it.”

Arthur pursed his lips and took the gift, glancing up at Alfred sternly. The clumsiness of his hands betrayed a sheepishness though, gingerly unfolding the message tag.

“Artie,” Arthur read out. “I was thinking we should make our own Pear-shaped Society. Only with actual pears and gardening this time. Y’know.” He raised a brow before continuing. “Cultivate an interest in the nature of the world around us, minus the reptilians.”

He carefully peeled away the wrapping paper and opened the cardboard box, revealing packets of flower seeds. Arthur’s expression was unreadable — his lips were pursed, and his gaze darting uncertainly between the seeds and Alfred.

“I-I bought you something else as well,” Alfred hurried to explain, his mouth feeling dry, “because I know getting a bunch of seeds for Christmas sounds kind of lame, but seeing as we just moved here and the garden looks kind of sad, I thought maybe it’d be nice if we —”

Arthur slung his arms around Alfred’s neck, pulling him close into a hug. “You foolish thing, I’ll put you out of your misery — I love it.” Arthur pressed a forceful kiss to Alfred’s cheek, beaming when he pulled away. “Look at you. You’ve gone beetroot red.”

“Yeah…” Alfred laughed nervously, feeling the flush on his face extend to the tips of his ears. “I was honestly worried you’d think it was dumb or something.”

“You’re really serious about getting into gardening with me?”

“Of course, I mean. You stick the seed into the soil, water it a bit and that’s it, right?”

Arthur chuckled. “It’s a little more than that, Alfred.”

“Oh.”

“Thank you, though.” Arthur said as he leaned in and wrapped his arms around Alfred again. Alfred mumbled back an incoherently nervous reply, admittedly a bit at a loss with how to deal with such open affection from Arthur. He still couldn’t entirely believe that he was even living this life. Now and then, he wondered if he’d wake up back in St. Agatha’s, if this was all a fleeting dream. But it was difficult to believe this was true; not with Arthur here with him, his anchor to reality as he knew it.

The Christmas dinner was as rambunctious as expected, and some sentimental part of Alfred wanted to keep filming. Ivan and Yao gleefully popped Christmas crackers left and right as soon as Arthur explained it to them. Francis had taken to recounting a story to Matt, which must have been fraught with euphemisms because Matt’s cheeks were tinged pink on his amused but shy expression. Even James was chatty by his standards, brought to life in a way Alfred hadn’t seen before. Alfred turned to the seat next to him, surprised to find Arthur missing.

The lights went out, leaving them all murmuring and confused in complete darkness. Alfred’s stomach tightened sharply, his pulse running wildly. Something brushed against his shoulder. He flinched, ready to scream when a small flame sparked next to him, illuminating Arthur with the Christmas pudding in his hands.

“Alright, quiet down everyone,” Arthur said, setting the pudding down onto the table.

“Oh, is this the part with the fire?” Yao chirped up.

Arthur appeared to hold back a smile. “Yes, Yao. Well. More like flames. Don’t get too excited. It’ll go out fairly quickly but I thought you’d all like to see it. Here goes…”

He poured brandy over the pudding, and gently lit it with the lighter before yanking his hand away. Blue flames engulfed the pudding, casting gentle shadows of the table and everyone across the walls. Yao gasped and leaned closer, tugging at Ivan’s arm, but something about the movement behind them seemed off. It was something about Ivan’s shadow, the shift of his silhouette’s much too broad shoulders, a twitch that didn’t quite match. And then Alfred saw it — or _thought_ he saw — the rise of two horns from his shadow’s head.

Something tugged at Alfred’s hand, and he nearly jumped in his seat.

“Are you alright?” Arthur whispered, chuckling.

“Yeah, of course,” Alfred sighed in relief, darting a glance to see that the strange shadow was gone. His eyes merely playing tricks. “The dark makes me jumpy, that’s all.”

Arthur hummed sympathetically. Even in the low light of the blue flames, his eyes still shined in a brilliant green. “You should probably put the camera away for this one,” he said as he leaned in with that iconic sardonic half-smile of his. Alfred laughed, shutting the camera and indulging in Arthur’s unapologetic kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally here!! Thank you all so much for reading and supporting this story! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Feel free to leave your thoughts via comment, and once again, thank you :)


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